Poetry

After the blast, the 
morning gets wise, and 
does not spill the sun. 
 
And the dead will not 
come back to celebrate 
the dark after the rage. 
 
There, on the white peaks, 
the splattered blood will 
draw the face of assassin. 
 
Do not enter the dome of 
seething screams. The priest 
hangs by the bell. 
 
O, my brother, why we 
have become coldblooded after 
thousand years of pilgrimage?