They travel around the cigarette-burn entry wounds,
when she plays with her fingers in air,
the strings of the night-guitar give birth.
his fire-hot body between her wide open arms.
They take a stroll among the tall red fingers.
A little far ahead,
memories of blood falls down like a leaf,
when he kisses on the birthmark of her nape,
with the right measure of saliva aqueducted to his lips.