This was the surrealistic
nightmare.

Omitting the guilt
I will paint a nude.

It was not kind of
pink. Cosy with words―
you will polish the legend,
misspell the murder.

Transfixed I enter
the still life. You come
out with bound hands
to say goodbye.

Sometimes I feel, it is
not over. The sap of black
pine becomes red.
Needles prick me, not to move.

You fold the holy book
and put it in bag.