The moon has hided in the mulberry in the front,
I sneak on the porch of the house,
the voice of the night lays in poems
page by page.

Nothing that I’d written is not known,
the hikers wings are breaking,
the night’s marrow is freezing in words.

Amused by the dew, the morning lets
its shadow taken away by waters.

You have no expectations, you only have predictions,
at the locked opening gates of the heart.
The steps took their traces back
because of the frostiness in the stones’ soul,
and they’re groping on the path of an absence
where I’m not.