Deflecting the logistical
guide, you were
becoming a juggernaut―
running after the shadows of kites.

Mute testimony of a
bare cut of imagined
willow, which would not weep
for the winds.

Becoming surrealistic, you
knew too much of the truth, when
you were drunk on lies. Why
the poems were murdered in day light?

First time looking at a large
landscape, I skipped the beauty,
the land and the clouds.
Only the birds were flying.