In Exile

With tall questions I am 
alone, waiting for the 
tomb robbers to come. 
 
Truth was no more a religion. 
You wanted to consecrate― 
the illusion, sealed in myths. 
 
A graffiti appears on the 
waiting trees. Who put― 
the curse on swaying blooms? 
 
The dialect of the moon will 
not listen to heart beats of sun. 
The grammar was in primitive state. 
 
Yes, the music of lake has 
a meaning. The boat will carry 
the wreaths for the wilting words.