Poetry

It was revenge on you
by unknown.
You were sentenced to live before
the ashes arrive from thumb to thumb.

The onset of grief
was caliberated. I would
not live with a mad weaver
who will not heal the moral bleeds.

A line delimits the dots.
The dance will not begin tonight,
of democracy. The sparrows
were frightened. There was blood on the road.

You want to go into a long sleep.
The moon had an excuse to rise late.
The seeds will observe the silence,
before they come out of the asphalt.