cold. as the tomb stone in winter
hungry dagger in her fingers
dancing on the souls, who surrender
to the tip of a pen
(are words that slice
the stanzas of life)
thousands of knives
stab into the bluish veins
fountains of blood burst
(the narration of pains
in the hand of the assassin
the mighty poet with her pens
dare you change the lines?
of such offense to your mind?
