Splashing down liquid voices,
a troubled peace of silence enveloped
the fragile land.

Here comes Queen Lockdown with her septic flowers.
The church bells chime mutely,
with refined silence and hypnotic horror.
Funerals and weddings merged like companies,
Counting on numbers frugally.

We followed in the footsteps of only
those who walk with caution, and we
washed our hands to weariness, just to
partake in the repast of safety.

The tension in our eyes
masked the effrontery of gales
and misted our eyeglasses and pince-nez.

But wails and angry roars
besiege this global silence,
and the reign of a hostile bereavement pitched.

O Coronavirus, I wash my hands off you!