Poetry

Moon dust was sprinkled 
once more on mangroves 
to extend the war 
across the border. 
 
This was an intricate rite 
after the sad error, of 
changing the itinerary 
to pathless liberation. 
 
The violence has spilled 
over in the city of roses. 
There was no water left 
in the turbid estuary. 
 
The herd was coming 
to cross the sands of time.