Someone put bars in front of the sun
and kick the sadness in the corner.
This is not good, I need a breath
and a piece of good old sun
to sew shirt of my bare love.
It does not need angel wings –
it has long ago forgotten
what it is to be a heavenly messenger
and cemented its new spring
in a lame and bare soul,
unable to see farther than the scream of words.
The buttons will be last sunset.
My tired lips will put that label
that may be just the caress
of the last woman in love in the world.
And if the sun does not sleep,
my love will dress shirt and will throw against fate.
Or maybe not.