Poetic frenzy complexed
these red lips without being kissed;
soil mocks my tears
and wind rush is
stops and passes a thousand distances to
not be smeared
no return crying, pain
hindered,
my bearskin shaved.
Where the dead must be
that since his departure
were lost in a shipwreck of wild passions,
this is the cycle of martyrdom,
the psalm without divine mantle,
a popular science article
to see if a poet reads.
The bitterness of being a
thinking without words or spitting,
of who remains silent out of compassion
and trapping
uncertainty in pollen extract
to try to fertilize
made glass sand.
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