There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.
Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.
I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!
You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her
brittle cold – buried deep as snow…