Half a century, I travelled East
Treading pathways; trading
thorns for smiles.
Time was melting in her hands;
Warm, with no fire,
it was burning
and melting, as wax
on blades of grass.
His eyes are made of frosted glass,
No light enters, nothing escapes.
From your gravestone, I pick flowers:
Flowers harvested for springs to come.
Lamps, dimly afloat in a crimson mist sky.
A quarter of my life transcended North,
then dropped back on swollen grounds.
A thousand salt tears, I travelled West!