A black butterfly
sprinkling the dust of its flutter...

What we are born in them as identities
are never as shameful as...

Darkness like mirrors
echoes all our intentions...

I am he who built the Persepolis,
Babylon, the wall of china...

Whiteness in my heart
I avalanche from winter...

Absolute
is the silence of a canvas...

They come in boxes
alluring, ribbon-tied...

Upon the perspective of the oppressive past,
the fragments of bygone prospects...

On ephemerals,
I snooze while two butterflies...

Effulgence
spawns on the transparent pons...

I know—
everything I see...

We built our coffin from the planks of our habits.
We have no choice but to be obedient to our death...