Late in the night,
A quiet winter fire
Burns the last log.
The embers, red as lava,
Melt my thoughts away.
The gentle flames,
In their metamorphic swaying,
Here and there,
Follow unintelligible patterns,
Soon buried in ashes and dust.

This poem has no poetic rhyme
It doesn't deal with time
Because I wrote it in no time
It isn't worth a dime
It's more bitter than a lemon or a lime
It has no aspiration of the sublime
Perhaps I'd better become a mime.

Do we need rifles to shoot the virus?
Do we need borders to stop the pandemic?
Do we need a rich philanthropist to provide us with a vaccine?
Do we need poverty to show off wealth?
Do we need the eight wealthiest people to spread social welfare?
Do we need an enemy to win an election?
Do we need drugs to find peace of mind?
Do we need fashion bloggers to mean that I'm better than you?
Do we need fake news to approach truth?
Do we need religions to be brothers and sisters?
Do we need to attack to feel safe?
Do I need to win to forget that I'm lost?

Every piece of my mind and my heart says
Please, Peace.