Are you there, I would
say to my conscience?
A perfect faulted future
was the vision.

The ragged present
depicts the cold murder of
the dream land.

I do not want to
interfere with the past. You paint
the god as the victim.

Lithesome, pure as milk
your words flow―
from the steaming eyes.

Do we take a side
with violence and axe, and
keep on beheading the
dynasty?