Poetry

A green hunt of words 
does not dare to insert 
the isthmus as indelible 
mark between a future 
and an unknown. 
 
The fear becomes me. An 
odius entry. Will you 
help me to find the variations 
in the storms of life deviating 
from their narmal orbits? 
 
I cannot separate you 
my song, from the meaning 
of the script. The indefinite thing 
has the text of echos 
coming from the stars. 
 
The baby moon is climbing 
up, to remind me: night 
will not stay for long.