(click on the photo to enlarge it)

To lisp in sighs I haven’t had the time, whose breath smells of the brazen wind and flutters the thread of my bare scalp, livid sometimes with my earliest words, in cold nocturnal nights, I the Child bear upon the signs of life a part of that is death and not otherwise

As my fingers weave a little dream
I dare not say whose path extreme
Dare say dare whose strings tremble
Of sheer tumult amidst flagrant ramble

I haven’t spoken of it for sometime now, whose lines crumble and shiver sometimes of sheer pain and sometimes naked wants, needs and deeds succinct, whose lines mark my open palm beside a cold knife’s accompaniment

I will write again and change some path, merge them perhaps or separate, I haven’t had thought of it yet but I know of knows I will leave behind when time shall come and I shall remind.