These are times of toxic air,

of stars striking playgrounds at night,

the moon posing with sniper skills

to hit the young and the old with dead smiles;

these are the times of avoiding God’s eyes,

because we think our hearts are too heavy

to carry the flutter of laughter

without provoking an unpleasant stigma.

It's time I free up some space

to receive the bodies that you will bring

to this house steaming with the stench of death

and light weaving its way through its doors.

Before we became moulds of sinking clay,

woven from dust, gathered from sand,

we were grass lying beneath the ground

where bodies hid from the face of the sun;

we had dominion over the trees and animals,

listening to rivers, brushing aside the war

and the little whispers of midnight rain

stalking time to hear the echo of birds.

When our bodies collided with gravel,

which time erected at the altar of the sky,

we were floating leaves left decaying

and return to the field in angry jolts.

Every star cruising in the Aurora Borealis,

will bleed to death during its lone eclipse;

but another altar rises when we gather

our spirits to pour out milk on bony palms,

which stretch out for a pint of grace.

Bring the dead to the new, fresh altar,

split open their hearts to gauge the spirit

long dead before they were born.

To die in a war did not shape their neck,

built like a bamboo to bend, not to fall.

They had gone through life with this burden

burning up the fire to live like a flower,

by which there is a gradual unravelling,

when leaves of grass loosen and break,

and every unfolding moment is a revelation of pain.

Bring the bead on a bold and whispering shoulder,

who will return clutching a bar of forgiveness

as a glass of milk to bring back their souls.