Undating the memories
in final push to cauldron, I said:
let the words burn to ashes,

in terminal journey,
of eternal flight.
You turn a blind eye to sun’s venom.

Moon, the blue baby in a casket
rubbing the white clouds
for a trek to intoxication.

I ignore the opium field,
to collect the bullets
and bones of infants.

Seeking peace in a simple
shade of hymn.
Perhaps stars are listening.