To M.

Your lovely neighbours, yes, sometimes they bite,

Clouds, waves, so spin it nice and short, my soul,

Just hide in the grass, the sky,

You, always a branch hunted by the wind,

Who can’t afford to dream

Of rainbows, or flowers,

You, always the outsider from rust-red foliage,

And borrowed time when the moon is rising,

But wonders who is her father,

Maybe that boulder? Drop it,

At a first glimpse it looks barren,

Even if teeming with dreams or wombs,

And you know her father is your mind,

As ever sowing, and deserting

Boys ‘n’ girls who dance with the gales,

‘Cause the sky grunts, then leaves,

His ashen pale limbs bit shaky, he seething

With anger if you see life, flowers,

Branches as friends, those henchmen who leave

On the ground missing, or stoned souls-

And it’s not a fairy tale, father, dispersed father,

Don’t scatter crumbs along the way,

Only shards of hope, and stop calling them

To gather on the shores, as prophets are wandering

Among the trees, the bastard dancing partner

Strives to hide, and you, soul, bite your lips

When silence goes awol on you, and loss, demise,

Rows, they all talk against light and shadows

Who stay silent, and leave you alone, as you feel like

Snapping at wrinkles, or maybe tearing your hair.