Do I felt again

the smiling tongue

of sorrow?

Here my voice depicted

one minute of smoked souls

and then I fly again

to the rain shadow.

Inside this solitude

there’s a summer memory

trying to climb the horizon.

Here I had this shadow of my self

there I will pay the price of attention

and write false English poetry.

Is there a language greater than

episodic atoms of unloved heart?

Suddenly I must forget

everything against my clouds:

this verb and phrase is one of them

and I will never get enough scholarship

I will never understand what is

a single verse, a tiny piece of something

else than lovely inspiration.

What’s love? Where do we seek

the nude body of young women?

Everything could be different

but I wrote it like that and it’s wrong

again, it’s wrong and impolite.

This rudeness shines all around the table.

Then I smoke another cigarette.

It’s too late to unfold my message.

And I don’t know how to get out

of this density called identity.