Who will write the last poem ?
Who will catch the last splash of light ?
Who will eat the last plum fallen ?
Who will undo the power of oceans of dioxyd ?
Who will undress the shadows of women  ?

My knees have already hit the ground
The noise of my sudden fall panicked the birds
Who will help me raise my voice again ?
My hair I cut it with the blade of  my breath
Hundred dark flames have tainted the waterfalls since

Who will catch the last love syllabless ?
Who will eat from this crooked, old trees ?
Who will undo the shadows of our ends ?
Who will undress my voice as I blush
Who will read my last poem ?

My face hit a beam of light
I catch a fire and tought it was the end of history
Since that day my shadow waits, sat on a cloudy dusty bank
On the verge of ten hopeless rivers
My voice, I extinguished it like a fickle candle

Your shadow was outlining the horizon
In this chained silence, I could not jot down a drop of ink
For my arm was consumed by an ocean of iced fire
And my pallid blood waited an answer
That never came ; for do Gods ever knew how to answer prayers ?

Or do they thelmselves write the poems of our fates ?
Or did they shape the lightning in your look?
Did they swallow up our generation’s every hope?
Did they undo what our heart tried to achieve?
Or did they mean to undress our ingenous hearts?

I am afraid no answer will stain the sky, no answer ;
For incertainty is the fruit most juicy
We are doomed to eat, like we kiss sand grains,
Like we are haunted by mountains, by voices
Without them answering to our prayers