small things ask some uncomfortable
questions. I enter the eye of a wound.
Unscathed, will i obey the law
of believing; the round mirror?
It reflects the absolute truth?
they begin the attack in the valley
of thoughts; words, were hung
over the paper, spill the ink
like blood on the street.
Who will lift the corpse?
Words on the wings;
let them drop
like stones, like knives. The flesh is raw,
bones white a century is going to sing.
Submitted by Satish Verma.