She leaves the swords of her footsteps | in another story | Each morning, you find your way back | to the beginning, only | it has turned into the middle, déjà vu | haunts your day | Although the blades still | cut | someone has | named you, and the trees outside your room | have already | chosen their season

At night, you gather up the necklace of your thoughts | The beads of money and loss, herbs and hunger | Pausing at the edge of | sleep | as at the fringe of a fairytale forest | you miss the hand which used to | undo that necklace for you, then | fix the clasp again once the morning came | When autumn comes, it enters everything, even iron