After a long time,
I heard them again: peacocks.
Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees;
poised to open sexuality.
Ah, the purple lips of a downing cloud
sets the sky on a chase for a lost love
of the blazing moon in the starless night.
A recent pluck of a sharp grace folds the lingerie,
you open the fist to let the explosion fly away.
This was the start of a crimson romance.