Poetry

Crossing the divine, 
I ask the marigolds 
to return to the dust. 
 
The gods were angry, 
and dead would not speak 
and the living were dead. 
 
I am now heading towards- 
the mute bells, disbelieving- 
the great enlightment. 
 
Rebuilding what was not true. 
A dream will start telling 
the price of the inflicted wounds. 
 
I am not sure: 
who were at fault. 
The letters? 
or the words?