Cuckoo Will Sing Again

Way off at point-of-no-return,
my geometry,
collided with you for the last spell.

Lines, angles and curves had
started chopping off the hills of grace.

I had lost my path
in the slant profiles of brown eyes.

You stood in shade, like a
bronze sculpture of Michelangelo.

And suddenly you realized,
it was not enough.The moon
becomes pale.A palm tree
swings in its scars.
At distance the horizon crashes.

Time tricks you.Bones crackle.
The poem was born again,
bluish grey gem.