You call dead, but dead are not
those who celebrate the unwelcomed rebirth
in meadows of stubbles,
burnt and consumed,
like the blackest dusk
torn apart by someone who strikes a match
in the aftermath of a nuclear blast
that takes no prisoners.
Two lonesomenesses
beg for each other’s love
But the absence that inhabits your own place
drinks the dizziness that’s dripping from the walls
The fear of walking in the abysmal fields
bleeds the seconds of a shivering time,
drop by drop,
ticking away,
in countless endings.