It was the interplay
between shadow and moon.
An encephalopathy
in ring of fire?

The blast was the tipping
point of your identity. Now
you don’t recognize yourself
amid the books.

Grieving can start now.
Tossed from temple roof
on to mound of ash, you
stand on your grave for final count.

Again your voice will drown
in a green pond. It was a
prelude to a voicelessness for
ever. Irretrievable was, a bird song.