Poetry

After the organic death 
of soaked breast, 
I put up tiny islands of eyes 
in spooked water. 
 
The dead were coming back 
to live on the terrace 
amidst the roses 
of roof-garden. 
 
I talk to flowers to end 
the war. The light was waiting 
behind the hills and 
birds were ready to sail. 
 
Were you afraid of mother 
earth or roaring sky? 
The corpses are standing in row 
to receive the mighty wrath.