I see the tear-drop,
the drop of blood,
the drop of sweat
on my palm,
the aircrafts still
flying up above,
the sounds of the bombs –
of the falling, falling,
falling bombs are chasing
deafness of epoch,
they are going through
my wishes and this smoke,
this black smoke above our hope
is covering the heaven –
full of drops that from our blood
we throw for the future to drink of,
which may steal below to quench
the hunger of knowing in some
spirit in some shadow there
hidden – far beneath, under all
scripts, far beneath and long ago,
far beneath the memories’ waves
and far beneath the breath of us,
we can feel the reason of all the
tear-drops so fatefully desired –
the politics like knowing things
throughout the peace time before
or after or during the war, is the
art of the choice, the art of the law,
of the mankind’s solitude at all.