On the stone, I wrote the frozen poems

on the man who was crucified

droplets of blood lead to the frontier:

the curve of horizon

the space between the boat and the island it aims to

On the rocks, the furrow of my forehead

I want to know, I want to know

Is there a poem, or book of the old days?

On the rock, I wrote a message on it

with water from the lake of sweat

color, blood

smell, gun powder

horizon, dim twilight in a sudden

on the time, I’m feeling to crush the hour hand

I won’t close the book

when the rain is surely stimulating


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