Talking of the character
and morality, a smoke
rises. To arms.

Butterflies, and
waterfalls. I stand between
the two to take a
look at the last clouds.

On the date palms
my future lives. The pinnate pair
rips apart the poems
of merciless summer.

Burning hands will―
pick up the dented heart.
No more blood was left
in the twisted veins.

Coming out of the woods,
I hand over my moons
to you, for a blue kiss.