Poetry

Prepare the beds 
for the nocturnal read of book. 
The wodden angels- 
have arrived, carrying 
the golden caskets. 
 
O zero town, 
your children are coming home. 
There will be no interrogation 
in this fusion of grief 
and anger! 
 
I refuse to take 
a hoax call of death. The 
moon becons for an eternal bliss. 
Let the red eyes─ 
speak not of any pain. 
 
The agony of crying sky 
will not be said by any mourning 
mother, when you throw the dust 
unto dust. A new journey 
had just begun.