In search of wholeness,
the words sit around me
cutting the edge of the corn ear.

A new shibboleth, will
announce the arrival of
a bloody tribe.

In this life cycle, I
will meet you, to kidnap
a Pir for remaining silent.

Who was on the road
to give a sane advice
to the waning roses?

It was not poemtime.
The kids were bleeding
from the barbs of unknown.