It was in the black and white of his magic
that all my childhood turned into colours...

Orson Welles,
a man...

In our love,
the universe continues...

When was
and where...

In that café, I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart...

The respite is shortening
like my hair in the barber shop...

Be an embrace in which I may weep,
a solace against the restless grind...

In the desert of Christian land,
where Christ would never touch the sand...

Somewhere in distance
boundaries of space...

Yet eager for more
noticing in the mirror...

We might be just a dot, a stratum,
buried in the layout of ladybug wings...

Before reaching the end,
life placed you before me...