Poetry

The wind was in your hair, 
I will bring the 
valley, for you. 
 
A major shake up. People 
bend the moon 
on the lake, against hanging. 
 
The snow-capped peaks 
would collect all the green fires 
for the running tribe. 
 
The centuries weep 
for the unknown warriors; 
who were born to look like chaff― 
 
becoming fodder. I will 
ask the god to write a requiem 
for a person, who dies 
thinking too much.