The cry

There’s this blankness in the air,

everything on the loose

crying raw, raw, rawraw!

Integrity has left in search of another moon

for now, dewdrops in the mornings

are written off as rains by historians

misguided people are busy separating

perfumes from sandal woods,

warmth from the moving cadavers.

Imbalance has become the plat du jour,
insomnia is the new intellectual identity,
art of killing, backstabbing is the new-found intelligence
anything else is seen as a recipe for non-sense.

Businesses somehow survive without users,
for only in advertisements we see creative work, kind words,

what is not innate has become resident for good

all neighborhoods have gone back into the woods,

but even here they are unruly, disobedient strangers,

fleshes and bloods have become hard, as solid red irons.

The pumping heart is useless in living bodies;

from those who are dead, it has fled

like a screeching bird, chirping a strange cry

looking for another sky.