We Divide
Threads of confusion
We weave ourselves.
The birth defines
The sectarian pigeon holes.
The skin, the colour
And the decorated body
Win the position
Of the confused kingdom.
We prefer to
stay on the piles
Of the garbage of arguments
And design our society
Of a fragmented
mirror.
At a distant corner
The dog reviews the civilization:
It is better to born as animal
And be proud to live
In a natural naked form.
***************
The Mad Ghost
The turmoil is whirled
Like a wild storm
Overflowing the width
Of the treasured river.
Value of culture is washed away
To destination unknown
And the noise injured
The serene silence.
Rushing against the wind,
The brightness of virtue struggles
With the extinguished strength.
The war is lost
On the fractured
ground and
Lightning of the last scream
Is fired behind the bituminous cloud.
******************
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