Poezja

He was asking for, at least,
a passive euthanasia.

Rage or hostility
was giving pain to phantom limbs.
Race puts forth,
a trembling version
of ethnic choice.
A piped dream
which never took off.

On middle of the road
a dragon rumbles,
hissing flames.
Something not on the left
not on the right.
Cannot keep the sky open.
Nothing moves now,
not even leaves of a lone tree.

There was a random cry
unheard in the aloneness of fire.