Poetry

Silent go the dead 
on the moon, 
to know the secret of its smile. 
 
Did we know the ending of leads? 
The dream within the thoughts? 
Silent moves the trembling hand 
to print its signature on the heart. 
 
what is so tragic about life? 
The memory of bruises or attachment? 
We always talked about cleanliness 
of language, of lending beauty to words, 
when hate and anger brought on the 
ugly nuances. 
 
Somebody revises the text, 
Tongue tastes the skin, 
I start counting my failures 
and my books. 
 
Silent stands the mother 
for the wayward son.