Snaky Paths

In deafening silence 
I was hearing you, 
trying to taste and smell 
the traces left by you. 

Choosing between hope 
and despair, I gather 
the old coins. There was no 
clue to understand the movement of shadows. 

Earth is melting into 
water. In rapt attention I 
watch the footdrop, of placenta. 
It will be a stillborn moon. 
No honey, no elixir. 

In a deadpan approach, 
you will not communicate the 
death sentence for echoes. 
I will not take the side of inevitable. 

Let the book start 
burning the poems.