Of your being
I could write a thousand poems,
even more songs
and I can give you infinite number
of my tryings

To maintain you,
in my emptiness, in habits,
even thou the time is growing,
mountains between us,
oblivion, dust.

You need a movement to be steady,
Even thou your movement is a deadbeat,
off beat
In search for freedom

Of your being
I could write a thousand sonnets,
even more poems
and I can give you infinite number
of my tryings