A dynamic kill,
when you start crystal―
gazing.
Were you a participant
of an organized
rape of the planet?
Your roots drop,
as you gamble with the
change of coins. It would
become a stillbirth,
of a seaisle.
Telling lies has become
a lucrative job.
Are you going to buy immortality,
in the bazaar of bazookas?
The blast cells were
rising. There was intense
pain in my thighs. Blood
was turning white.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A fragmentation grenade without a fuse or detonator has a geometry designed by purpose. Buildings are always hollow and photons fight for interminable periods of time to escape the center of the sun. Boiling the blood of the sugar maple makes it inhospitable to life.