Candle by candle
you burn your dreams
unflaying the blue veins.
That makes you still beautiful
hanging in sky.

On the dead land your feet
will not touch the pond. Stumbling
I bring botanica to cover
your innocent faults
for telling the truth.

That makes me feel guilty.
I pretend to be not what I am.
This is the time when I start
hitting the road, missing the
scandalous moon who will -

kiss me hard when I was alone.
Just a fleeting pain. I ask you
to become a tree, so that I
can sit under your shade
and write a poem.