On a hollow path
you had failed
carrying the loaves of bread
in biting cold of politics
scaring the lips.

I was standing near
the dawn in praise of dark.
The sharks were coming.

Here goes the marble floor
for drowning in black blood.
The fire between the palaces
was eating the golden thighs.

I think flowers have gone
to drink from the little ponds
near the escaped souls
of scribes and guns.