During the litany of questions,
I will talk to you,
about the innocence
of flowing river.

Here was your faultline.
You had washed your words in
the dirty stream.
Now, you were complaining about the winds.

I will not ask you
to kill the thrill of hurting
the defence. But
were you ready for a recount?

Black, as a burnt-out bread,
the time; will leave the wounds open.
I will write a poem
you will start screaming.