Certain months are like birds;
In troubled throats,
Voices burning like defeated people,
They sing from the altar of the devil:
every note is a wound then,
every song is a new sin,
every egg hatches a cruel emptiness, frustrating you
like wet clothes on a monsoon day.
We scratched on the paper tree for new words and meanings,
Working on diffraction, lenses and solenoids, we
tried to separate from your world.
While closing the eyes on top of the wind mill tower,
I am filled with only your memory,
Inseparable like the remains of height on the wings.
Your skin, old like that of the earth,Your love, eternal like your forgetfulness