Stillborn passions in decayed hearts
the tam tam is heard only by the deaf
scratched moons mock at broken souls
the sun is bent to burn its own shadow.
In the pond the frogs croak silently
the crocodile sleeps on the swan
out in the fields the bees gather cow dung
and the beetle reigns in the honeycombs.
Up by the mountain the heroes die
and the valley roars with the laughter
Tears are red and
flow back into dry eyes
the mother refuses to bury her child
piles of corpses are set alight.
The night continues and the day
flees back. No light is seen,
ideals have dried up
Have the brave given up?