I swear, what was written tastes better than apple
served by the hands of a lover.
I know men who mistook their stupidity for cleverness.
I am against nothing but a man who doesn’t feel
the end of this poem as the end of a system.
I am not a prophet of doom but this earth is a dying man.
What to save from it is Himalayan.
To be brief say: self and others.
And to pronounce a word, alphabets must be kissing –
You’d first save yourself to be eligible to save others.
We are pacing, leaving what was written behind
for dance on the alter of guilt. Years from now,
a rat might eat the pages of prophecy and be fulfilled.
Will it be honey for my people to perish because what
they call wisdom is the spirit behind a bird’s mocking song?