he caught the punch,
from the air,from the fist,
from fists-fire that burns,the air,
around the wick-a seeking protrusion,
from the wax below...
and on his face he blew,
the storm,with whirling winds,
that carry the obnoxious dirt,
sheathing the fragrances,at depths...
the skin on knuckles,bled,
under the baby sun crimson red...
to waters sparkling,pristine,
of the eyes-looking at the image,
of the man,who had been him,
on the mirror-a river which erodes,
the earth,all the time,to mud,more useful...
the reflection made him all new,
the pain-the wind,cooled to breeze...
filling his breathe with fragrance,
the eyes had a new light,
light,that dissolved the tears,
and blood,to make twilight,
light,reached the abyss of the mind,
the mind-the flowing river,to evolve,
into soil,with trees and fruits,of efforts and truths...
... he atoned...