Crossing the divine,
I ask the marigolds
to return to the dust.

The gods were angry,
and dead would not speak
and the living were dead.

I am now heading towards―
the mute bells, disbelieving―
the great enlightment.

Rebuilding what was not true.
A dream will start telling
the price of the inflicted wounds.

I am not sure:
who were at fault.
The letters?
or the words?