Love

It is a curse that our bodies
feel their distance everyday
the very trotting horses of the thoughts
drained to the sky
asking for forgiveness to the evening and moonbeams
forgotten in your watch
and in my night and yearning hair;
only three nightingales are on the watch
to wear on their wings
the spell of the green forest and the purl
to gather the distance from light
on the butterfly flights
and let them in front of the door
in the shape of a bunch of basil
and a bewitched mirror.