Jumping on the colored carpet pieces
picking minced meat, smelling it
it’s fresh, reminded of the soul
so beat, so lost, forgotten name.
Chapter read with thought evading
paragraphs and lines alluding
to the utopia that cannot be
but lives alive on the torn and shaking
leaves of paper hammered on the wooden fence.
Travel begins with preparation for the worst
for when cold winds, with their frozen hunger
try to tell the tale of sand and sun so bright
that melts the solid ice on eyelashes on the face.
Cosmic puppeteer with the strings invisible,
transparent in the light and darkness,
only seen at certain moment
on the border in between
past and future, day and night.