The sound of bombs.

Thereof, thereupon
through this turmoil history
you shall conquer this gossamer land
looking back at times
while never looking
back.

I still wake up to the sound of bombs,
mother. 

Through this turmoil of history
your name shall be etched in
the pathos of every lover and
in mornings when I
wake up, I will hear you
play Orpheus’s lyre- and time
shall lose its meaning in
beauty as stones will melt
like hearts,

and hearts will melt like

ice in the heat of

love.


It was