They will not come down with branding iron and bobbing stings.
Instead, we will walk down the earth,
to meet the silence in half-lit homes of enemies.
This poverty of pause and peeling off from giants of fences.
I send a green rose to you from trembling hands,
to smell the death of half-truths.
The bridge has collapsed.
We start digging up for the bodies
beyond curtain of bricks and stones,
the iron-grids of flower gates.
