Cafuné

Towards the left and into the right
not a single heart in sight.
It’s expensive to be a human
And drastic when inhuman.

The conflicts are head high
river air: impossibility dry,
Sharp cries of wounded
growing faint
In one’s own home
everyone is a saint.

See, no help is needed now
No point where, why and how!
Tears are caught in between the lines
suppressed murmuring
as from a wood of pines.

Could one live?
What do they say of hope?
Does, post death
has life any scope?

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