Poetry

Gold fringed, the hood
strikes. You are bound
to throne.
 
It was unnatural to
demolish the ancient shrine.
God will not show his face.
 
And what about the dew
collecting on grass leaves,
when you were crying?
 
The kids won't cry now.
The hunger has put
them to sleep.
 
It was the dead end
now. You are melting in
great walls.