I wore a cloth that has been stitched
With several rival threads
Bleeding sorrowful messages.

Why must the innocuous feeble lamb
Be sacrificed on a desecrated altar
For a generation cocked in wicked atrocities?

Or the little calves shut indoors
While their mothers suffered the sword
Of martyr?

Like the vigil trees bowing in flinches
To the shuddering winds and tilling
Every comfort leaves and nest the tree bears
So grief sneaked to my nightmares
And cultivate ridges for fears to flow

For the little friend I stored as mine,
Have been ripped off of life and there
My grandmother smile to me from her shroud
And graves, and left her stool for me.

I wore that cloth, cloth of grief
Black as the devil’s skin in hell
Waving to a soul that can’t see us
Nor can it smile or cry as we are doing
But it’s enjoying tranquility in her serenity.

The Victims

The victims are the ceremonial scapegoat, caught
Between the webs of thicket by its horns
And munched by the vagrant hyenas,
The victims are the timid shawas nipped
Between the drooping seine and sprawled
For the daily sales. Victims are the slaves
Slave to partial lust, lord by unknown languages.

Early at the breaking day, when cold morning
Still lulled to lazy sleep
And the birds haply whistled the brining day
The gun blew, not a blew of victory
But perilous sounds that claws pious men
And caged little birds to hanging cells.

They are stern and confused to dashed to
Whatsoever angle but remained stale
Stale like the bust mashed of silent patriots, wailing.
Unfamiliar foots stamped the land and raise dust to cough
Till the brittle smoke ascend like an unworthy sacrifice.
Victims crawled on the dabbled dais.

The gun has overwhelmed the drum,
And send terror to so many regions.