Poezja

A cutaneous drip. 
The young moon drinks the dew 
unbuttoning a rose. 
 
A fierce wind rubs 
against the golden triangle 
to invite a violet sting. 
 
Eyes armed with green thumbs 
go for a swim in rage. 
The lake unloosens a blood moon. 
 
No inscense will rise 
from the tomb of a lover, 
unless he dies with a style. 
 
Crossing the gray lines, 
I will not take your lips; 
paralyzing the silver tongs.