When,
the scream ends, you start
digging the shadows of
red berries.

The sky,
scoops the children of rape,
waiting for
the rains.

The tiger beetle,
will run after the winged prey
of first love.

Would you like to taste
the moon in the dark bowl
of malicious night?

Reading about the spell
of the roses, I went to a
Sufi, for an epitaph.