Flawless
like the hasty wind it ran
Medea’s whipped song...
Almost invisible,
irresolute,
our fate line spread
over the bloodstone hour of poppies.
Sometimes we suddenly
wake at night and ask ourselves:
“What about these anchorless words
wading between shallow waters?”
There’s no war, my love,
no guerilla behind the solitude,
just this life’s estuary
sieging the halcyon,
as the white irbis
it’s warm-blooded,
fearful pray.