The Frail Popsicle Stick

Come with me to the beast of martyrs
Inside the worn-out saxophone, many bruised conglomerates
pockets of sand converted into diamond.
Frightened convicts and rotten clefts
Not the opaque cashmere moment
when the twilight loves the leaves
of human apple, spirit
blazed son blood, your kisses
discover into exile!
And a droplet of cedar, with remnants of the sea!
Recover.
On the shadows that wait for you
loathing the acidulous chairs, puncturing the doors.

Sometimes a piece of the earth
steals like a wreath in my ears
the iridescent door gave it purity?
Wave of wave of miracles rolling down the sea.