The stones are being painted black
with fingers soft and sorrowful,
his hands much more wonderful at this task.
On the cold floor made of moon,
hundreds and thousands of objects
and their color – lay scattered, lie alive and waiting.
Coldly, my hands weigh a glittering plastic star
on the tip of my fingers, willing myself
to be a stranger to my own infancy.
The approaching war is much more harder on him.
He sings to himself, he keeps in his tears
as he creates an apple made of night.
I look at the last drops of red in this world
getting erased. I have some tears saved for this occasion.
I have some words in the memory of fire.
But the air is pregnant with reality and gunpowder,
our fingers bruised with the cry of all colors,
I can’t help but want
my words to be anything but a prayer
for a miracle, a saving,
even if it is only for you.