I was the owner of my own darkness.
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.
Love is short, but forgetting is long.
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?