I don't believe in angels
but the moon is now dead for me.
The last glass of wine is gone
before the thirst I'm suffering from.
The blue grass lost its way
running away from your sails.
The butterfly setting her colour
on fire was made of ashes.
The morning fires off
dewdrops and silent birds.
I feel ashamed of being naked
and as vulnerable as a child.
Without your hands my heart
is the enemy in my chest.
Roque Dalton
(Picture: Fire Painting-f31, Yves Klein)
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