* * *

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.