Poetry

I asked the suicide bomber, 
“why you want to throw yourself 
to your death 
scattering arms and legs? ” 
 
A beautiful moon 
then, rammed into a golden lake 
to find the secret age of 
a wee god. 
 
I felt the colossal waste 
and said, look within first 
and then cross the river 
of arguments. 
 
Like a diamond ring 
I wear the truth of morning sun. 
My heart will ask, what was 
the role of night in draping 
the stars around the deceiver.