Poetry

A severed hand, after
the blast, working on a script
writes about the
musicality of blood.
 
Blood of moon and trees;
of poems and bees,
contributing to making
of republics of grass.
 
The roots know the secret
of god and grief of humanity.
The sound ot truth resonates
with the art of dying.
 
Between the sun-and moon―
under the sky sleeps a
shimmering axe.