In my pensive moon
I knew you better.

Never to come back from
the winds of East.
I ask my shadow, the prisoner
of stings, where the truth begins?

I will never smear
you with any stain. Culled
from foam-born, goddesses,
you become my apple,
which I would not bite.

From green lakes of eyes
will you pick a new name
and disappear on the wings
of light to become a daughter
of rainbow?

Why did you turn your head,
to have a last look at
the painfinder?

The sun will go down in many colors.