Walk seeing faces of silk
pierced by a ribbon of light
and I feel like dying
under the orbs who evade beyond my knowledge.
It splits in two the sky. I feel it arching and falter.
Press the pressure suffocating.
And the same faces silk hover in the air
cutting my face,
if the moon becomes a gash
that feeds on souls and night,
the night is still motionless under my eyelids:
You are still right up there with that silky skin,
to want to feed the fingertips of every vein in relief
further opening the gash,
that die without having your hair coiled index,
and you smell like the beating of the interruption,
but you walk beside me- those remaining trinkets silk
are encouraged by the breeze, flying over the clouds.