First, there was no eye. Only one palpable water.
Only our body-age, raining through silica.
Running through a trance
We, the empty form of life, our bones were fragmented to
And then, the kind time. A distance hidden in it,
with a pipping sound.
Sequences are like lovers pouring bridles into love,
pouring, then unstitching
Lastly, Discontinuation. It has the secret
threads weaved in yearnings.
In the next room, when the shouts continue, and forgiveness
crying, love tries rooming the bodies for the last island on earth.
When the two of them stop a
common corridor, the soul, perplexed as if without coatings,
finds finally its way, jangling, towards the unstoppable terrace
In the end, come again, waters. In the disguise of rains.
They rejoice. As lovers wear them on their skin.
When we love, a shower continues. As if there were nothing such
as a sequence in this world.
We, then smile again, like the first timers on this sheath.
All so afresh, anew, before the beginning of this world,
wings taking birth, far before time egging the birds