Poetry

I am asking 
who is calling the shots? 
The time makes noise, 
and silence brings pain. 
Years go by. 
 
Night of stars and moon 
develops a sonorous dream. 
All kinds of brutes and aborigines come to parade 
flaunting their arms and ammunition. 
 
Where they are going in veils? 
The body of truth is already lying in state. 
Magnified eyes stare at micro images 
of windows, 
through which you could see 
long tentacles of an octopus. 
 
Meditation helps for a while, 
contradictions arise again. 
The empty spaces are being encroached 
upon by tall promises.