* * *

Life has no words for death

as big as the eye of a bird,

for an abyss stopped the breath of summer,

for winter without hands and lips.

Again comes the season of mists

and silence cuts like a knife gardens,

last tulip lost the scent

is a symbol of hope and crucifix.

Life never says why, however, there was not,

leaves a poor heart of the new Match Girl,

lights the world with humble words.

Life lights, but no burns,

and the scars are deep and desirable,

Sheherizada wait in line

to hear my new tale for the summer.

A falling death from the lips of this poor and miserable life

is only a sign that after each birth die dated traditions.

I hate this verse with every word,

even crouched and lowered.

It hurts by sorrow,

strokes with a breath of wind,

but as it is trite.