the crows stop cawing
and take the crimson thread in their beaks
to stitch the perforated rainbow
where crimson dreams dwell
my sleep has come to an end
so the debris of these raindrops
becomes a prelude,
a blanket for my estrangement
outside the balcony
the wind is shaking the vine leaves
and the world becomes a clayish wall
nothing can shatter it
but the blood
or anxious butterflies