Looking For Gold | strings

My heart is like a dawn,

Intermingled colors,

Where black dies old

And white elaborates a laugh.

A knife in my left hand,

With tremors and tears,

I cope with the nightmares,

To take that beat out.

And the beat is not a dream,

It makes the days pass by,

Like a mislead visitor

In her own land.

So the biting hours,

Eat the thin thread between a second

And a minute,

Stalling my death to dusk.

Yes, not in the dawn,

Too much for a butterfly,

Still sees herself as moth.