Poetry

You are not 
on my page. 
No more in my abstract sleep. 
 
Cease-fire 
will not be declared- 
in the realm of dark dreams. 
 
There was 
one tear at a time. 
No battle cry. 
 
Trampling on 
the old reminiscences, 
a tiger jumps on the author- 
 
of mangrove. 
The aerial roots have 
stopped breathing. 
 
Your lungs become 
a flute. A war song frightens 
the death.