A handful of Flour
The sky will not be incomplete today,
it’s a perfect equation; a sky plus another bird.
The elder brother puts a big black sack on the kitchen table,
they’re waiting for a handful of flour on pins
and needles.
With war-like embers,
but the sack is dripping with blood
and the blood touches the tired light.
Even the light in my country is tired,
is tasteless.
It’s his blood, falling to the soles of the feet
but no one knows yet, they think it’s flour.
And straight up, the mother sits on the floor
she wants to make bread.
But all that is there is human shreds.
The sky will not be incomplete today.
Quadcopters are blooming in the country like an ogre,
like a biting fear.
When will the country become a book, a coffee and a home?
When will the guns die and the tank at the door too?
