Poetry / just something from the wind

if you could imagine a blossom just turning red,
a butterfly burning to a yellowish amber.
and two little girls sited next to a fire thats freezing each other hands,
then polluted the world is not, let me get dress and leave every nightmare there is.

But if you rather see demons of white cloth and red eyes.
with wings bigger than any bird and voices strong as trains
then welcome to my house, i hope you make yourself comfortable
this is me the one with the golden letter on the stone…
... yeah it’s me.
The house of the fire torches, the water from which death fish are always swimming.
the pond of blood from which your nightmares awake themselves.
the snow tinted pitch red of bird’s blood and the marked sidewalk from where two children lonely play.

look if you can into my eyes, then tell me the truth
make yourself cry up on my visit tonight.
you will be terrified when you notice that you are lost in your own house.

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