For a believer, it
was impossible to fill
in the blanks. We were
the rarest pygmies.
Afraid of each other,
trying to demolish, the windows.
We scramble for awords.
We remain unstable.
Don\'t move, don\'t
touch me with your sacred
hands. I break down when
I kill my poems.
I shall wash my
hands again and again.
The stigmas won\'t go
in icy moonlight.
Water grieves for
the moon, it will not get
the honeydew.