The Cold Drawing Poem by Kiba Black

The cold drawing
in the cut dreams,
with the sounds of the sonata...

Why the hurry?
To learn what
should never be known...

Burning away at the Dawn,
to get born
with the Moon
and weep
along with the raindrops
because no one
can approach the Fire
and depart with no trace
of being burnt...

The cold tentacles
of the dead star -
once they touch -
it is too late to help...

To inject the red-hot needles
into the palm
with the purpose of overcoming oneself...

Yet branched voice of the Wound
still whispers
like cartilage of rampant pride,
like wings of the our planet
where each is punisher and judge…