My fingers stick to letters,
They sticked with wax and soul and bitterness and with me and with you and thousand and thousands of sounds
and love.
Destiny scratched itself on me with a slap and with the chisel and with me,
My head smashed of a rock when I tried to find what I meant,
The word opened itself to me in syllables to study its empty of meaning and maternal dust bowels,
Wings and quick, quicker, more and more quick gravities happened to me.
Until I fell flat to the ground, in the clay.
There I became a pot of carrying inexpressible feelings in letters.
Then wax didn’t melt, my soul didn’t empty, bitterness surprised me more then ever
With love and hate,
Then I understood why I am scratched with the name of destiny, and I can’t erase the shape given to me by the chisel,
It is then when I wiped off my bloody head with a towel,
And only my mouth remained bloody of the syllabled word: my love.
The word fell off my mouth with unequal gravity, quick and slow,
On the ground, on the world that doesn’t understand me, on the causes of being by laws situation.