Poetry

And everyday we talk about the sinister designs 
of semilunar nights to rob us of our days 
when the sleep was far away chasing the sleep 
and the crumbeled continuity of a tale lay unpeeled. 
 
How to highlight the dates on our calenders? 
You keep forgetting even the years 
when your forefathers left. 
And deep in the green grass the names were wiped out. 
 
Winged days were shot down after returning homes, 
late evening, when listening to commentaries on death 
and reviving myths of blissful healing 
from reincarnated saints. 
 
The pseudo-dementia, scented jasmines, 
flickering flames, leaking petroleum, 
human torch, 
and your non-stop crying. 
 
All night the onion breath blows on my sweaty face. 
Tomorrow morning I will walk with 
my shirt ripened with stains 
where my heart had bled.