Her face
Like December leaves,
Pale, void.
Tears freeze in her eyelids.
She stands enclosed by
The ruin – human-made.
Her looks have lost in depth.
But it beyond her grasp.
Why she can’t unwillingly smile.
Why she has no mood to play
With the dusty, ruined doll of hers.
Why, why, why ……
Her city turns to dust.
Her home turns to tent.
Her tiny heart
No more feels pain.
No more tastes pain.
Her tiny heart
Hangs between life and death
All she does, all she can
Is to be overcome by the depth,
By the ruin that reflects
Inside…
Stealing her childhood, her life
And grants her a living death.
Socalledpoetry of Biba
So-called Poetry of Biba 