The scent of cinnamon that moves away
The last greedy inhale of sweetness
a feeling of primeval emptiness
An eternal [bad word] to end

The words are like inevitable stains
Like ulcers on snow-white skin
Air is [bad word] chains upon a neck
The nature of realizing awareness, burns with the bitterness

moment of touching honey
Is leaving white marks on a dead
Phantasmagoria of an evening summer
An epitaph of dead winter...

And a word will remain unspoken
hope that will stay in a womb
You're tearing it out of a naked body
The nails of your fleeting happiness

Tear the petals of life's inflorescence
The silence of lips is like a salvation
Look at your weakness and fading within
Not so cold is a blade as your blood

The icy fragments of life are falling down
In the last flight, in the last dialogue
Having split yourself on the waste ground
You could scent a smell of cinnamon and a light of sweetness