I believe, I had not arrived when you were arbitrating between naked steel and the truth. Violence were you. I was watching the burning pyres in a row. Small hands were collecting the ashes, casting glances on the falcons.
Why reincarnation of the reaper again and again arching the helpless life in terror? Half-filled cups of tears are spilled on the marbled smoke. We made the truce with slaughter in moonlight pitying the survivors in sun. The face watching from the window disappears.
An auburn dawn wakes with swollen eyes. I might find a lost child of the empty womb – wandering in wilderness of three dimensional sorrow. O mother! Somewhere the roots are waiting!
