Another Mistake

Training your voice, you 
had come around to open― 
the door of the miasma. 

The departure stretched 
very long. Strange blinkers 
were holding the light. 

A cunning God would 
not let you die― 
in the trenches of syllables. 

The moon would withdraw 
from the humming night― 
for a face-lifting. 

One blind sun, hurts 
the path, where I had 
laid the marigolds.