you struck the chords of my lute:

amid the crowd, my head.



rose thorns you hurled at me

into my soul: sore scratches



April turned into December

buds scorched by frost.


Groping: the attack

On the floor you found my soul

fallen candles crumbled walls

pots of upset sadness.


Your hands of so skilled a man

suddenly, bravely, strongly

from my soul pruned death

first identified in shouts

later uprooted in despair.


Groping: the defense

If life is temporary business

field of light walled with love

strongly I’ll suck your sorrow

shadows won’t suck you stranger.

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