Under a canopy of oak drenched

                     Sunset

  In a sea of moss

   Capsizing lighthouses in my ears

Cold air prickling my skin

           Like thorns of the dead roses

     On my windowsill

           In the shadow of Diego

And dreams of Mexican nights

          Trotsky and salsa

Searching for Warhol,

          The bannana, the velvet underground,

       Maralyn Monroe

I reach for it

                  And it rolls towards

            Electric moss

  And over there is a heartwrenchingly

                 Perfect flower –

          Whose home I forget –

                        Fallen

          And it makes me think that

                     There must be something after

    We all fall off our trees

           Maybe death is the catalyst of beauty

       The firestarter of vibrancy…

If only I knew its language…