Poetry

It was very edifying.

When you shut the mouth of
the oppressed―
the mass grave speaks.

The widow was still mourning,
after the causality of my belief,
my psyche, my rights.

You don't make me, then
how can you break? What
was the height of fall,
will you let me know?

The volatile words are now
losing their import. No
real, only cosmetic display.

Let the celebration of
bold death begin.