Poetry

The ostrich problem
of catalepsy.
You go into a cocooned
opacity.

I will wait, till you
come out, ready to take a flight
for an oath ceremony.

The land suffers,
the sky weeps.

The shotguns would now decide
the boundaries of speech.

I will walk into the
sea of heads, to find the sunken ship,
to retrieve the faded road map.

I have to face a new testament,
how to remove this poverty
of right words.