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Poem

At the crossroads between nights and longing,
He carries within him a season forgotten,
With a liver like sodden earth, chilled beneath dead leaves,
Viscera stirred by the silvery thrill of the void,
Eyes - two awkward stars bathed in dew of venom,
Wishing to dissolve,
In the mist of a river whispering its frozen wreaths,
His soul is full of echoes and untruths,
Unable to utter the teardrop, the wildness of a wrapped cry.
He fears the solitude that swallows him.
She is made of moonlit strands and woven gleams,
Chestnut shines in her hair, delicate as the wings of the morning,
Eyes reflecting colors of unabashed skies,
On her skin stretch myths boldly painted with strokes of the sun,
Bracelets of coolness and the scent of the ocean on her bared shoulder,
And she stretches on the sand - a ray in the silence of the shore,
In the noon where constellations seem to rest.
She does not know the awkwardness of voiceless days.
She lives in a world where loneliness finds no room.

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