Poezja

Something was always missing around 
one had to die daily. 
To find out, what? 
Just a slip of time, 
life was death and death was life. 
 
Death of a man or death of a city 
death had no other name. 
 
Hearing the footfalls of death 
dogs were howling around a temple 
where god was dying. 
The nation now mourns 
for the banished priest. 
 
At the burning pyre 
there is still no peace. 
Anger lives inside the books, 
flame hides in the candles. 
And a rage surges forward 
in the bones of archaic humour.