the old church gate is a heart growing bigger
through which blood passes in a thin stream
windy rains whipped the bricks
there is no more key
you must strain yourself to raise it a little
a sunflower wheel stuck on the wall

at sunset bats fly like hot arrows
whistling near my ears
stars foam didn’t quench the fire yet
I am certain it will be so many
that I will become a feather easy to be blown away

I’m wiping a blind wing’s trace on my front
returning towards the entrance
stepping firmly on the ground
near a cross I picked four threads
of basil growing wild

Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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