Raised through the chivalrous
staggered realms of uncertainty,
I crossed a million branches,
entangled by the miseries of their past
beholding them to the bark of trees.
Some, on which knuckles of owls
clenching the skin of branches,
the look of thirst in their eyes,
dwelling hard for an extension
of their dreary victim succession.
Some, on which snakes dwindled,
whispering along the sleek red
surface randomly shaking,
their boneless shininess,
through the dirty recklessness.
Some, on which emptiness hawked,
the pain of loneliness
then embraced me for long,
of times and unknown.
And crossing the border,
I reached the land of dreams,
and saw a million men and women.
I paced back for the owl,
snake and the loneliness,
I lost the way.