Ashes
Which have been torn from the fire with the full moon
Have returned from the full breeze, ashes of consciences and bitter fire.

Fired in warring rays, they stick in the darkest hours
Taken from loneliness and screams, the ashes dance in the eyes of the still night.

Skyscrapers of grey cities, armed with flashing rifles.
Before the face of the starry sky the ashes melt and hide from the giddy eye of fear.

And if the night's dark face is washed by the drizzle, the ashes are broken and the soul of the hours erases the black soot of bitterness.

The blue morning perhaps wakes up and stays to play with the red and green tops of the cedars, once again the fire has lost its inheritance.

A tropical spring has been shelled, the ashes are shroud and grey mud, the blue weather has won. Only memories of ashes that existed.