Alas my dear
I am still the Ozymandias...

All my ventures in the flesh of grapes
were because...

Imperfection is
the prove of perfection...

The bouquet of wild white flowers
that I tendered you...

I soak in the clear well of morning dues
to bespatter...

O father where have your fever gone?
Where have your wisdom gone...

Fire is flaring
and moths are exchanging their wings...

Tick-tock, tick-tock she tiptoe walked
towards my door...

Edited
How life and death...

There is a desert between our lips
that cannot be satiated by all the mirages of...

Between that time and this
there has been always now...

Space is the separation
from us...