Looking into yourself,

one day you will say

I am not an alien.

The unborn nightmare

takes a secret look at the

self-portrait of a Rembrandt.

The contours were

losing the shape. Being

dented you don't―

want to become a pawn of time.

The hearsay was genuine.

You start believing

about the blameless moon.

Pink threads were appearing in your eyes.

An enigma flourishes.

Neither you will open your mouth,

nor the night will end.