Every day we talk about the sinister designs of semilunar nights
to rob us of our days when the sleep was far away
chasing the sleep and the crumbled continuity of a tale lay unpeeled.
How to highlight the dates on our calenders?
You keep forgetting even the years when your forefathers left
And deep in the green grass the names were wiped out.
Winged days were shot down after returning homes,
late evening, when listening to commentaries on death
and reviving myths of blissful healing from reincarnated saints.
The pseudo-dementia, scented jasmines, flickering flames,
leaking petroleum, human torch,
and your non-stop crying.
All night, the onion breath blows on my sweaty face.
Tomorrow morning, I will walk with my shirt ripened with stains
where my heart had bled.
