Burned Roses

God loves his witches.

Listens to their prayers,
grands wishes.

Every fall drinks a cup
full of their tears, screams and whispers
and brings them back to life.

Decorates their paths
with rain of golden leaves,
baths them in the evening fog.

Women with burned roses pinned in hair,
eyes as cold and hypnotizing
as the moon enlightening the sky.

Each year they fall in love
with the sounds of wind
dancing in the streets.

God kisses them goodnight
blurring sweet, chilly air
on their tired faces.

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