The night 
has some secrets.

It is still burning 
in spite of 
its deep burns.

It shows 
it has received
those.

It confuses us
with some
cottons.

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Tell me woman, who is more honest:

The face who smiles, with bright murderers standing in lines,
covertly grinning, 'love exists, but in ways',

the face who cannot smile, even if it's smiling
as his beautiful eyes, now grown up flames, increasing their shape
in a strong kiss that bends two forests,

the face who lives through a fair winter
and claims, it hasn't cried
and the banks whe...

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Let me write you there where my poems fail,

where endings are new beginnings.

Two aging strand ends, two baby lip ends,
two porous tongue ends, two bone finger ends

in line after lines, repeating, 
'successive matings, successive deaths is also a line'.

Let me call you there where my being searches for its lost,

where hollowness continues as a road.

An extended yet temporary ki...

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