1 SIGFRIDSSON

BLOOD TRACKS

Think of faded traces of blood in the woods 
turned into dust 
in a last kiss of grey 

Two footprints under the turf
Two dead at this place again 

Our eyes are still here, 
crowned over perfection, 
for we kissed the lack of death 
and put stones on thistles 


We’re awaken, seen in wounds 

Heal, we heal