Will stars shine on thy ceiling?
When you collapse onto the soil of the night
Will streams of the meadows be filled?
When you spill the light of thy breath
Into the soundless horizons
You've sowed the tree of evident
On your illusive field
The flaming rye burns jealously your toes
And nothing you have left but to move on
Upon the never ending path
Across the serpent's labyrinth
So your could gone at once
Into the well of time

Fading lines amidst the clouds
Quiet snow upon the still face
Beneath the eyelids closed, shreds of memories
This shall follow after
On your paintings of white
Black ulcers emerge slowly
And spread as ink of death the poetess
And seizing the moment inside your open hands
You pass beyond the threshold
Of the gates of empty
But all shall follow after