i woke up all red-faced.
in spite of night's wily dark paste,
i got up without the haste
so common when life was so late.
at the park the trees have been utterly burnt,
made to crisp by red fires that have painfully hurt
,bodies lie in the streets, where peace has been burst
with faces screaming, but no longer alert
at the river is no water
only limbs and liquid from slaughter
perhaps somewhere here there is my father
a father who loves her lonely daughter
yet her daughter does not love anymore
for her there is no more light in the world
all the sun has been stolen by clouds
And by rapists, and by their hounds
no poetry can be written
As the past that is so smitten
with life
rests
asleep.
The poetry that used to lie in my hands
now is dust
to somewhere
sweeped.
If ever she does go out again,
she'll find no words
to reap.