At the end of the day,
standing before a shut window―
in fear of power game
under a cataract of twilight.

A panther had visited
again at night in your courtyard―
to sniff out the
hidden moons.

Your ism was on fire.
Logic gone. The weird neighbors
had become bedfellows.

A dirty war will ensue
between the translation and
original script, in fake
and real.

You slap a drum. Pathos.
I have reached where I
did not want to.