Poetry

No more the sun was hot. 
October shadows were clinging to hills. 
I was ready 
to speak, to negate and to kindle the dust. 
 
The issues were floating in the wind 
like bleached skin of the dying man. 
You could look through it and beyond. 
 
Do you think the ageless will die? 
The impotent rage will speak for the street? 
 
I wanted to negate the remains of pedagogy, 
the shoddy make-up of the lies, 
and the men, in ugly immorality- 
cutting the truth to the bone 
with roars of laughter, 
bidding for the flesh of carved saints. 
 
The faithful must unbelieve 
in the history of the star, 
who could not reach the earth. 
Time was creating fear.