The animal thing inside:
My half-brother,
was unsettling me.

Over the sunset I watch
the drawing procession
carrying the dead body of a tiger.

The light is fading. The stripes
were becoming a myth. The
guest was ready to depart.

I am holding the molten lava
in an urn. In the black sky
a satellite burns to undo the grief.

There is no death, no stopping.
A face pressed between the leaves
of a book smiles.

You come back to me in rains.
I call you by cinders dancing
in the mirror of whistling time.