Bury my chances in a heart of flint
when coming from the womb i find the spark
open like a mouth ready to swallow up my tongue.
The time in heart should forgive us the cry
of sinews slipping down bloody throats.

Pining for beauty i find the roofless house
grinding firecrackers out of hands
giving away fingers crawlings down as worms
up the tunnels of our veins
to the violet lumbs which are spread out in the sky.

There we float as the restless clouds
of eastern Paris in melodies of hues
the canvases hung high  on walls
are open up like myriads of windows
showing sceneries of never ending alleys.

Your eyes in their sockets
redeem the vastness of my fantasies
your ears only echoing
the weeping of our bodies
like the slow dying of rolled mummies in white sheets.

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