This politics of poverty
erupts again...

Killing field
was still red...

I am in retreat, for a music
of visitation...

For a desolatory trident
I was feeding my anger...

Like it was pain of sea.
The waves are not rising...

Ah, the baby clouds
rappled down the moon...

Partly stripped, head shaven
for a royal revelation of eternal scars...

My charm lies. You
will not come in this poem...

Have you tasted the silk
in the pit of snakes...

Moon was ready
for a swan dance...

Creeping in waking night
was fear of fear...

I have come back
to myself, after...