Poem Of Summertime

And I will hear you 
without noise, 
in the yawn of night 
when I will open 
my wound! 

Burning in the 
intensity of time's blood 
I will not touch 
you in my dreams. 

A fakir wants to leave his skin on the 
rocks in sun to become 
parchment, so that you can 
write your name on it. 

And my vacant eyes 
in summer night, will search 
the legend of undying 
grace, in the wasteland 
of life.