The moon went to sleep in the lemon upfront,
I sneak on the porch of the house,
the voice of night is laying in poems
on each page.

Nothing that I’d written is being erased,
the hikers wings break,
the night’s marrow freezes in words.

The morning is kept in dew
your shadow lets itself carried away by waters.

You have no expectations, only comings,
at the gates of the heart
where they don’t get anymore.
The stones disagree from so much frost,
and the steps take their traces back
I fumble on the path of an absence.