In deafening silence
I was hearing you,
trying to taste and smell
the traces left by you.

Choosing between hope
and despair, I gather
the old coins. There was no
clue to understand the movement of shadows.

Earth is melting into
water. In rapt attention I
watch the footdrop, of placenta.
It will be a stillborn moon.
No honey, no elixir.

In a deadpan approach,
you will not communicate the
death sentence for echoes.
I will not take the side of inevitable.

Let the book start
burning the poems.