By hiding the beginnings
I learned about each season.
I didn’t understand why my eyes close sometimes
so deeply; at each recurrence I moved my leaves, one or two branches
at the right;

than, in winter, I never remembered...
just heard the steps, crushed me into the minds
raised on punk rungs. Till when?

Till when the rain will clean off any suspicion about my walking
with the looking bold on the ash?
I just try to overstep carefully the other thoughts,
lest I cover their tender hands
under the nonchalance, desired or not, of my weeping acts.

Through the empty forgotten bodies on the wingless earth
people are passing, without any direction, without any fly;
who knows if they are coming or leaving?!