Talking to moon tonight,
in windless night.
You begin― to reflect― the past.
I pretend― I am gifting you
my poems, while bleeding―
from the eyes.
You will not read,
even once, the steaming tears of stones,
when the volcano―
spews its molten grief.
I am gifting you today, forever―
my summers.
Snow will rush into my veins.
I freeze at once, in memories
of the lone, stark naked, yew tree
laden with red berries.
Not poisonous, I am gifting you
my death.
Take me in your solitude!