The scent of cinnamon that moves away The last greedy inhale of sweetness a feeling of primeval emptiness An eternal dialogue... comes to end
The words are like inevitable stains Like ulcers on snow-white skin Air is like rusty chains upon a neck The nature of realizing awareness, burns with the bitterness
A moment of touching honey Is leaving white marks on a dead Phantasmagoria of an evening summer An epitaph of dead winter...
And a word will remain unspoken A hope that will stay in a womb You're tearing it out of a naked body The nails of your fleeting happiness
Tear the petals of life's inflorescence The silence of lips is like a salvation Look at your weakness and fading within Not so cold is a blade as your blood
The icy fragments of life are falling down In the last flight, in the last dialogue Having split yourself on the waste ground You could scent a smell of cinnamon and a light of sweetness.