The ostrich problem
of catalepsy.
You go into a cocooned
opacity.
I will wait, till you
come out, ready to take a flight
for an oath ceremony.
The land suffers,
the sky weeps.
The shotguns would now decide
the boundaries of speech.
I will walk into the
sea of heads, to find the sunken ship,
to retrieve the faded road map.
I have to face a new testament,
how to remove this poverty
of right words.
