I kneel down 
to pick up 
one red anemone 
I thought was there 
the image of red 
gets buried 
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.