When the smile from within the ink
has stumbled me inside myself,
I have stuttered my obtuse hopes
in eye and skin - as chisel.

Where do you go, love,
in war?
Take me with you
to fight you with
the angel...

Touch me with the fingers
as you would touch a crumb
of moon...
And I'll watch you
holding God by hand
stoically suffering myself
through your flesh,
allowing yourself carved
with myself.

and I desired you among my syllables
drained in my voice,
but you heard me not,
you were planning your revenges on the world,
on this life and the other
and you forgot that I am waiting for you
pagan
as an idol,
in the chisel...