There is my last breath,
a Catching fire, lighting the rain,
Before death comes,
only once I take the lead,
of hearing you speaking
in tongues of spiders,
The Weaving trimming,
the voices of trembling,
My previous whispers,
is calling faintly.
To The last remanence of a quiet sound,
of a nameless voice, which I only found,
in The shapes of Sun flowers, I only have known,
precisely unknown, the undress capacity,
to love unbound, the limits of seasons,
to find you there in every whisper,
in every face, in every smile,
it is yet to call death friend,
and live on,
As a mere whisper.....
In the vast emptiness,
Toward a largely blank page,
waiting to write on the stars,
in the image lights that precede us after
To the flowers state of Secret Gardens.