Who will write the last poem?
Who will fetch the last splash of light?
Who will eat the last plum fallen?
Who will undress the shadows of women?

Who will help me raise my voice again?
My hair, I cut it with the blade of my breath
Hundred dark flames have tainted the waterfalls since
Who will learn the last love syllables?
Who will read my last poem?
My face hit a beam of light
I caught fire and thought it was the end of History,
Since that day my shadow waits, sat on a cloudy dusty bank,
On the verge of ten hopeless rivers
My voice, I extinguished it like a fickle candle
Your shadow was outlining the horizon
In this chained silence, I could not jot down a drop of ink,
And my pallid blood waited for an answer,
That never came — for do Gods ever knew how to answer prayers?
Or do they themselves write the poems of our fates?
Or did they shape the lightning in your look?
Did they swallow up our generation’s only hope?
Did they undo what our hearts tried to achieve?
I am afraid no answer will stain the sky,
no answer;
For we are haunted by Gods, by voices in the mountains
Without them answering to our fears