Banjar

To your right,
You will see the land,
The land devoid
Of water and greens.

It is much like winter.
Dry lips,
Unkempt Hair,
With your skin peeling off
Scathingly.

But this ones called Summer.
Ironic.

It’s as if the one
Who dies in cold;
With shivering hands
The last of his breath
Making warm whiffs
In a cold winter night;
Is any different.

From the one
With chaffing knees
And Scalding heat
That blinds him
Enough to hallucinate
His lips to quiver;
Water.

Aren’t they?
They both.
The men of death.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.