Wrinkled Birds
There is a cup in your hand, and there is black water like the ocean,
Maybe she will absorb all the sorrows,
Everything that happened before...
My tears have dried
A transparent package is like a shroud,
Thousands of white scarves are buried there, like birds.
They did not fly away, there was no wind
And only eyes in the distance, her gentle hands
Touching an almost dead tree
A scarlet drop of blood on the trunk,
As a sign of the death of my soul.
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