Rise will nations,
Wait and behold
Once tragedies run their course.
What's passion is love,
but love is bleak

Hence, like plum leaves in the autumn gusts

My waist shall swing to the music of war.

​

Death is a mistress

With which your heart yearns to play 
How those unwise eyes 

run its body like poetry.
And that your cluttered mind,

my eyes probe like a novel,

Upon flipping past pages
Yet more, your ropes of thoughts

swirl and loop me 'round.

Soon enough, blood slither down my palms like

red pythons
with a soft lustrous shine to it

that favors your tear-drenched eyes

under the gentle pallid glow of the moonlight

​

As is often said,
love it is not if not mad

And so, every floating note,

I sing most blithely

​

Like a night-black crow nibbling wildly

upon your gushing red heart

torn to agonizing bits 

by its blood soaked beaks
The ghostlike shell of your eyes grow black and cold

As if buried deep within
Carried the death of a nation

​

Long passed those wet shower springs,

and white winter snow
Time will tell, this we owe to know
A lover's run loose
And so their face had a color

of the death of a nation.