My love is the ocean of blue tiny diamonds

My love is the pieces of raw bloody flesh

My love is inherited Mayan calendar

It’s blooming it’s booming it’s near to the end.

Beginning is wind playing cloth in the desert

It’s fresh like milk from the breast of a mother

My love, end is death, and the death is a nature

And we are the sand of desert’s unrest.

Is wind feeling fear of losing the cloth?

Is cloth whose’s afraid of staying in beds?

If window’s left open there must be a moment

When cloth will be touched by the breeze of night guest.