Poetry

The fresco had started
peeling off. I was―
searching for my ancestors.
 
The walls had the secrets
buried deep in the bricks―
when they were baked.
 
Few abandoned poems,
some fakes and counterfeits
and many masks.
 
A dynasty speaks of
the grieving world without any―
remorse. I do not arrive.
 
A birthday present for the new
generation, a bronzed
face with glazed eyes looking beyond gravity.