Like burning coals on the tongue
the words smoulder the ardour.
I cannot pursue a thought of untruth
for sake of remaining alive.
The water hole is dry,
we turn back from poetry and greens,
heading towards another cul-de-sac.
A fear mocks at the face.
About being a human failure
preparing to admit the defeat.
Despair will decide the path!
I always adored a struggle for reality
calmly choosing the self-denial.
Secretly I weave a memory of moon rise
in pitch darkness.
