A painful shrill screech of a bird,
awake on a lifeless thigh,
and the taste of blood reminiscent,
voiceless woe soaring mutiny,
In an amnesty my life,
the ink still not dry,
from claiming it.
A weeping violin,
the incessant tolls of a clock.
What’s left of me, is not love,
the fishes die in warm waters.
Don’t ask me my name in a struggling remembrance,
I’m not yet alive.