“Let’s go as we are:
wills patched with many patches
and my song needs to breathe: poetry isn’t poetry
because of the wall.
Which exile do you want?
If the west wind does not come
on time, a feminine moon to fill the poem’s
sighs out of a purple dream. A wind brings smells
in your lilac night, I am he who was one day
forced to see the injustice among the thorns,”
“and only echo replies
“Perhaps I’ve been here once before,
the road of invaders who want to renovate their history,
make again a new love
over an aching stone.”
Subterranean Blue Poetry