Queries
His questions came out of nowhere as if now and here,
I stood on a wooden bridge in the middle of somewhere,
Yes, it was here and now that his power and pride rose,
Against the vulnerable circle of life living another century.
He asked me about the twelve months of our short year,
I answered with alphanumerical equations signifying nil,
Yes, short but nothing of great importance for his likes,
To him life and death are but particles of grains of sand.
He asked me about twenty four hours and a day’s misery,
Rather rhetorical, or that what it seemed for I was silent,
Yes, hours of rhetorical movements of his limbs on lands,
And slaves of the fields invade this little wooden bridge.
Wednesday, 1st of June 2011
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