Silent Circle of Borders

Beneath a young woman's nightgown a fountain of desire breaks loose.
At midnight, in a flash of light, appears the invisible stain of blood.

On the wet earth lies a landless farmer's final hope— a chest full of ruin.

In the paddy field, motionless, a headless body lies;
the scent of grain mingles with the iron smell of death.

From afar— I only see the new colors of a map bleeding into the wounds of the old.

There was no fear then of a woman's violated body;
instead of bloodshot eyes there were eyes of honor.

Back then, freedom was ours— yours and mine— only the ways of using it differed.

By the railway tracks lies the throat-slit body of a young woman.
Around her stand countless silent faces, mere spectators.

No one looks away, only the sunlight burns the unseen wound within each soul.

I watch— a sculpture of endless inquiry, where new wine is poured into old, scarred bottles.

The city streets are no longer tarred, cracked like dry riverbeds.
In the far sky, migratory birds descend upon the circle of borders.

From their wings hang the shadows of unseen treaties;
others hover around the edges— with the signal of a single wing, the path of all is decided.

15 August 2025 – 7:35 PM