What do I do with the words? 
They hurt, they flourish without thoughts, 
destroying the civilities. 
The sky cannot hold the conflict. 
The strange friction 
of the image blurs the colors. 
Love has become a cauldron. 

A tough question 
tries to penetrate in my skin. 
I come out of my body, 
peeling off the conflicts 
from the timeless silence. 
The voices of doom hang on the trees. 
Somewhere the tears 
turn into watermark. 

Not afraid of afterlife 
I am ready 
from death to death. 
Another autumn 
will take away all my greens, 
water & grace. 
But primordial smile 
has a history of matching a face, 
with the dead.

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