Poetry

Under the frame 
lurking from a sun point 
I will track the death 
on mountain. 
 
Unafraid, a wild animal 
had killed the lambs 
in a row, resting in homestead. 
The ladders were squealing. 
 
Dizzily you realize, that- 
you don't belong to yourself. 
After eating fire all along, 
the birds had migrated; - 
 
beneath the skin; now pigments 
were changing the color. You 
become selfish. Start removing 
your name from the martyr's list.