Five Short Cuts For a Shot On Sunday

One

This rotten tooth of doom
Spills unforgiving beans
Along the empty street
In front of it —

For centuries have passed
An empty glass
Can’t fill the dried out soil
In our memories —

Leaving makes them grieving
Those who call themselves living
But they don’t leave
Their homes anymore —

Thinking about tomorrow
Trying to forget the past
Making up a moment
Stop breathing at last —

Irony is futile
During a time of war
Laughing is forbidden
We won’t come far.