Let the commerce begin
in moral crimes.
You had been selling the death, daily.
The lichens,
had invaded the tongues.
Speech was blurred and words were gray.
Someone comes knocking
at the door in night. When I
opened, it was moon.
The potter will not fail you
once, writes a blood poem
for the drifters.
In the beginning there
was turbulence in the sea.
Now the boat sails on fins.