Silent go the dead on the moon,
to know the secret of its smile.
Did we know the ending of leads?
The dream within the thoughts?
Silent moves the trembling hand
to print its signature on the heart.
What is so tragic about life?
The memory of bruises or attachment?
We always talked about cleanliness of language,
of lending beauty to words,
when hate and anger brought on the ugly nuances.
Somebody revises the text,
Tongue tastes the skin,
I start counting my failures and my books.
Silent stands the mother for the wayward son.