Grief settles thick in the throat and lungs: thousands of sorrows being suffered, clouds of cruelty, all somehow from love.
Wail and be thirsty for your own blood. Climb to the execution place. It is time.
The Nile flows red. The Nile flows pure. Dry thorns and aloes wood are the same, until fire touches.
A warrior and a mean coward stand here similar, until arrows rain.
Warriors love battle. A subtle lion with strategy
gets the prey to run toward him saying, Kill me again.
Dead eyes look into living eyes. Do not try to figure this out.
Love’s work looks absurd, but trying to find a meaning will hide it more. Silence.
Adam A. Azim 