even men’s dreams

Who do you think will be next?
The cry of millions rising to the stars
rising from the bloodied dirt

Sun in mourning moving away from
soldiers’ dropped helmets, no one
to be spared, pushed out
by the anger of burning steel forests

The sun in mourning dragging down
with it’s shadow the men’s faces
blackened by the soot of their dreams,
the dreams that insinuate, stimulating
nights restless sleeping into days,
as absurd as a candle burning on top of Mt.
Kilimanjaro everything is evocation
and invocation, even men’s dreams
perhaps even, Salvation.


as I rise up to fall

Sorceress in mourning, in the lonely lair,
I sleep where the owl stays. At the edge
of oblivion where mosses grow, the lush
jasmine wears a lunar look

Stealthily, I walk an obscure route,
a road where no one tells the truth
where no one dares to protest…
war has taken over the big house,
ashes of my world once designated for
the threshold, are spilled over the
floor falling where craters formed and I
hid behind the door, hands over mouth
the moon cried out to me: rise, scatter

Putting away the mirror of life, I peer
into the deep hollows of a night so blown
as the sadness of all death seeps up
from broken concrete and earth
seeping through my fingertips,
invading me