Poetry

Are you genuine, I ask? 
Your face, a stone wall, 
I had been bruising my psyche against it. 
I have no strength to bury myself alive, 
in the mass grave of lies. 


An ancient fear 
descends from the hill. 
Wants to marry a tree. 
Or worship the terror 
of a diaspora. 


The vultures are dying every day, 
We were talking of pregnancy, 
desire and death. 


The sparrows are gone. 
Heat is rising. 
I am starting the countdown.