Poetry

You are waiting
amid fears. The fretting
does not end.
 
At where,
the road ends? To find a blue star
where do we go?
 
The house was
sleeping in fog. Inside the
dome, hooves, quiver.
 
I have to become
mute. Time was black,
my song blue.
 
A pure crime.
The vultures come in
cloaks to take away the lamb.