Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.

They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.

The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.

My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.