Long night will start
the pincer movement;
pyrexia is rising.
Something like
an extraterrestrial hand
digs deep in the mind
to open the tomb
to unravel the tragedy
of nuts and bolts
which could not fix
the mutation of the hour of death.
Dark blinking lashes of soul
measures the cliffs of silence
and then pours
the hot red vermilion
in parted wisdom of sky.
The clang of bones again penetrates the liver.
The green flaming jelly of innocent bellies.
The hyacinth is choking the village pond
hiding the corpses of precious flowers
with green blood.
One day foundation of skeletons
will build a temple of hope.
