You feel the sun in me, 
can you meet my eyes?

I won't greet you,
I am running.
I will be passing you by.

I see your messages,
I feel them in my chest.

I'm not speaking,
I am setting,
like the sun is in the West.

You've ribbons made of silk,
they are folded into bows.
They are ruined,
they are rotting,
like the poppy and the rose.

What are the balances left over,
in your body?

I recorded every moment,
and the tapes are ripped and rusty.