knock at the egg shell
before entering my memory!

the birth of an image
on the stage of my eye
is like a drop of blood
and a baby cry
in the dawn of an era.

I die.
I live.

another round of applause
when my memory
wins the audience
in the beggining of
the representation, and
poetry
bows
in tears of separation
among my fingers,
behind my fingers
and away...

my eye hums
freedom
among the blood drops.
and their eyes take her away
with every word.

she's gone.
and I'm alone
again.