Poetry

In search of a missing clock
he went to the city of a fake encounter.
It was irrelevant to find
the lost tunnel.

There was no street without a rustle.
The sap of tall trees had bloomed
into jaws of death.
He stepped on a land mine
and blew himself
to reach the truth.

And his gift was an
apostate of me.
The tenth day moon will
celebrate my becoming nobody.

The rivals will have
a field day
dancing on my shroud.