They keep their men locked up in mangers
devouring snow and copper threads
Medieval smiths forge crimson sabers
to slay the lovers in their beds.

They warm their tongues with yarns of folklore

Silent… for nothing is left to say
after the insides have slowly decayed.
Words (be they paltry, vital or sweet)
are not more than nonsense, hurt, and deceit.

True it is that I still love you
like oceans springing life from beads.
In your hands, my thoughts turn into
scarlet feathers and crooked trees.

Blood effusing from a whale's heart

(Inspired by Björk’s "Sun in My Mouth")

Morn is undressing before
the green eyes of eventide.
Chinese lilies and nebulae
drown quickly in
turbulent waters
in search of time.