I don’t fake the pain, pain was me.
A grafted rose opens up along the road rage.
This was the city of my birth, my oblivion,
my reincarnation ejaculated from the dark.
Here I found the golden dust nuggets of truth
and the nostalgia of a broken moon.
The marble white love and green bowl of arms
a happy valley of stings.
The sun backtracks on hills
when I walk on sands leaving the deep scars.
A small horizon was my window
hunger of nightingales on branches.
The tree was walking in my house.