Crimson carpets hide what you had engraved,
In my heart with stone and bones,
Words had become so tiny a creature as compared to
The amount of pain this funeral gives,
During the storm, I bare my chest to you and wait…
I wait for the summer dewy perched evening,
When the world would crash down and collide,
The smile, The heaven, The meadows, The purgatory,
The accident, The blood, The suffering, and the wailing,
I wait for eleven days on my doorstep to escape,
But I die…
I die just like that wife did when she decided to
hold the hand of her dying husband during the bloodshed,
I die in the prison of freedom,
I die in the heartache of love,
You say God sent you to teach me a lesson, but you know,
You know we are so deep creatures of tragedy that
we create one if we don’t get it in the end,
You create endings so that you don’t suffer in it,
Or you’re just as merciless as that wife who kills
Her own pious husband in the bloodshed?
The war looked pretty, didn’t it?

.    .    .