Skin thick and red
like an old season
remebered while its young hopes
were coldly dismembered

Memory: end of summer 

roots were being planted.

No return to stains on walls

and songs heard from distant 

open air concerts !

no return :

movement triggered

winding one-way stream

pages turned by the eastward wind

in a non-dream, downhill

in ill-conceived plot ;

silent accomplices of a cruel

cruel crime, barely hidden.

There, in the middle,

to witness the turning of the wheel,

a solitary candle, wax crying

the first and last syllable,

the angst, the ordeal.

Maybe, if the hand could be redirected

to hone and hold the old knife,

under the bright sun rising,

the white tablecloth dry and crisp

in the morning heat, 

the blade would cut it open...

On the improvised stone altar,

a fruit-poem on cotton truth:

pomegranade cut

to endlessly bleed, 

To drink, to know

To die and reveal

The past, the end.