Send on a carved story
to a fickle branch,
changing with the succumbing leaves,
a burial for their arriving winter,
in the air.
To your state
among pioneers of hate.
We loved until morning arrived,
while noon was too late
to treat us the sunrise.
To your eyes, naked,
in the blue dust
from the fabric of night.
The longest embrace
beneath beaming stars.
Our grace within unneeded space.
Our great surround,
our warmth in the final eclipse
of an hour we kept walking
with eyes directed towards towers.
To you, naked under the run
from the ungrateful sun.
You roll in the direction
you toll to booths that collect coins
for the tax of a heart.
Our sceneries bleed on
with the fading moon.
Our eyes see a unified foundation,
under caress, under the night,
within the flesh
with which we were dressed.
Modern Romanticism 