Sewn, stitched above the bubbling scare,
Where children learned the world’s ways
And soldiers accepted their dismal fates.
Where one white shoulder moves from East to North,
And the two quivering fools never split –
                Their cousin never wagged incessantly like he does at parties,
He hid behind the wall like a yellow beetle, fearing the house owners may come home.
Yet what to utter in such circumstances
Where the belly falls
                And the arms divide to point at the planets.
This, now, is the end of syllables and rapture,
Intelligence and effort,
                The sacred voice that shattered mirrors
Now frozen forever in guilty shakes.
Frankly, I never possessed the stomach.
Pacifism is the hot blood rising from groin to punch the stomach
And the dry sand that erodes the throat.
And anger – that chained, wild dog thrashing, snapping its teeth with the dead sound of a slap.
And pride – the hands entwined in the chains, forming shadowed figures against the fire.
                I see myself no higher than him.
Submerged in the afterthoughts of the silent battle,
Our cocky speeches dictated in private
Now seem like pillaged playgrounds.

Nevertheless –
Time is the hands wearing away,
And unleashing the beast with fire on its tongue.