When will the lion’s jaws
close to the stench of a wound,
while a mother’s arms are aflame
for the warmth of her child?
While the soldier prays
where the night stands still,
in the sight of knees against sand,
there are fathers
who grace the motherland.
Bullets on paper,
bombs to heat the shelter.
Loneliness revisits the eyes,
apart from unification
to the outskirts of remembrance.
Love will win
for the bleeding heart’s territory.
Mankind’s sin
recreates a burning road
where a mother runs,
where a father stays
to die for the running blood
between birthing legs.
A virgin fear,
two eyes taming the fire
another generation desired
to spit upon gathered eyes
as the forms pile higher.
Modern Romanticism 