Maimed, tortured for love of resistance
this night appears to be
without an end.
There was nothing to lose,
it was looking for some reason
to die on the side of a cloud
when the sickle moon was sailing.
Tomorrow a new lie will be born.
Even a suicide bomber
will be tossed around,
like a new coin.
Weaving a dress of skin and bones
in the little sky of so many
purple birds.
Acoustics are not working
walls have no doors.
By night only a torch will be moving.
