I kneel down
to pick up
one red anemone
I thought was there
the image of red
in the downpour
of grey dust
Nothing is left but
a rewrite of stories
concrete heaps adorned
with the shards of something red
dance of mourning, yesterday’s gray dust
the wind moans
someone paints yesterday
a house, a smile, a red window
an awakened truth in the predawn hiding sun
no one counts tears
yesterdays laughter has no echo
the sun heats the rubble like a dry fire ravaging life
stories are covered by gray dust.
It dwells where the house was it swallows the keys to the toppled doors.
I rewrite I rewrite I rewrite I remember I revive the account of the
crimes we commit.