Tonight I lift your eyes from the face
and paste it on my window.
Even death cannot claim the space
reversing the age.

A bra bomber blows up herself
in a windowless cell,
to get her a name on the wall of silence,
sort of a miracle.

Roses are in bloom
perfume of your life.
Do you take for granted
a claim for the sun?

Over to next moon
I will wait for the night,
to start a turf war
for the bloodied mouth.