Poetry

When Rilke stops
whispering, I search
the cut flowers of gladioluses.

You don't speak
at all, blinking your eyes
anxiously. There was no
spate of quivering lips.

The exodus of long
breaths had the lethality.
Words come and go like,
a bunch of bees.

My problem was,
how to meet my beautiful
end.

The culture, the
wisdom would wait for
the angels.