You should stop
telling me, that you don't
deserve me.

Come hither
to pay back my anguished
calls. Sky was becoming red.

No Mayday would
be needed. I will not undulate,
will not play with needles.

Between the palm
leaves a death blows
chopping off the hands of artisans.

It was futile to collect
the forget-me-nots. No
angel was ready to come out of bed.

It was a religion
to squeeze the tears,
before you stoop to conquer.