It is an evening,
The world’s darkest hour
And a fìtílà dripping in strenght,
Are we dying soon?
Soon is never a word, but minutes and seconds that passes everyday,
Fìtílà dripping slowly, while air fondling the tip was hit by a wave.
Don’t join my fragment,
It’s pleasant morning of an evening of doom.
I am also a fragment searching for another to be a whole,
The waves of this tide is heavy upon my remains:
An instance where a child can be isolated
And its mother will have no courage to feel its temperature.
Varying degrees of madness is drizzling the world,
Making everywhere soggy, irritating, pressured, hopeless
Why would mother feel the temperature,
When tempo has lost it temper?
Because the mother’s breast is now shedding tears
And Mother-earth is no longer being kind,
Wait, I heard this dilemma is a weapon in the hand of a Power
A power that sucks both the subject and subjectee
An endless chess of doom.
Tears of primitivess and milk of innocent interlude the earth,
Mother-earth nurtures wickedness, selfness, thorns amidst butterflies,
Wolves amidst sheep,
Mother-earth could be faulthless in this.