Between a calm and a thunder, I amputate my days,
from the mediocre life of mindless alienation.
I bemoan for sanctity.
Man remains innocent of another man’s melody.
I get frightened.
Birds are suddenly falling from the sky.
Where the heart denies a heart,
a perfect rhythm,
mind bares a wound.
History does not repeat the truth.
Blank shadows break the windows
and I collect the ashes,
from the burnt plots and ruined homes.
Sometimes you pretend to kill,
an argument deliberately to know the depth of the answer.
The turmoil of half-being; the unhappiness of fulfillment,
the transformation of a death into peace, was it in harmony?