There is nothing called love
in a country where the despair of
those forgotten is a religion.
Love walks in shaded fear of oblivion
as flags of martyrdom rise in
rasping voices.
Discontent is another name,
another voice.
Love is the ghost of untruth.
We believe in the law of lawlessness.
History takes a turn in decimated voices.
Mute. Love stands clandestinely like a widow
wearing a veil of pretence.
