Code of the veil was darkening.
You were searching
for an unwritten message
in a bandana.
Rot was setting in flesh.
Sludge was becoming a stone
for an unmoving stream.
The talks had failed.
Hand-grenades will explode
in shouts later on,
to resume the protocol of death.
Where we are going in evening of woods?
To go searching for the sapient ancestors,
in city of fingers?
Years were rolling by in fog.
The arguments were climbing on the black hills
to meet a drunk god.
