Thursday, July 5, 2012


I go to the place I hate

And embrace unclean rags

And push my haste in the dark

Don’t feel sorry

Marrowless branches plish on trees

Leaves shed, skin dries;

Vast expanse of deserts,

No stone to remind those buried

There was a citadel

Within it was a city

Within it were streets and houses

With dreams of green meadows

And the Citadel is in ruins

Immaculate dreams

The old cellar is a pack of ribs

And juicy blood and pus

A heritage unclaimed and scorned,

Beautiful names bringing hurricanes

Up above the skies the Solicitor General smiles

Soliciting souls with His starry stripes,

Studs of fire;

Down below, the Earth drinks tsunami juice;

Upon the terrestrial surface

Rivers of hate overflow

And gorges of deceit

Old buffalo has lost memories

I go to the place I hate

Poetry has a sour taste

And a touch of life

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