Poezja

Cause of things―
finding in myself in solitary
manner, reaping
the harvest of failures.

The ghost of a town
roils under the protests.
Nobody knows the ―
length of suffering.

Me and my god―
we are one. Nobody else
was entitled to live.

The half-burnt bodies,
making a crowd at the bank
of a holy river. At least they
were not shot in the head.

Reasons were flawless.
Fallacy was truth.