Poem

My later statue

this breathing statue is not ancient nor glued,
it's not painted nor spread;
it is not hunted nor bought,
it's not sung nor read.
but it has a history:
a whale of sand became
a shadow crossing the window,
and a drop of beauty fever
inside my grave.
it has grown, grown...
and once it made every ocean worth every prayer

(I'm at this point right now,
and at this point I'll surely stay)

but...
I'll never be able to give her a name,
but that is a star during the daylight,
cos' it'll always live on my lips - her taste.