In the late hours

Prophecies of a coming morning

into the ears of the night

Ambivalence bang the gavel like the angel of death

and shout “lock-down, here is the time”

Beshrew the coming morning

and the subsistence farmers’ hoe

Boredom sleep on restless shoulders

and the pen travel through the soul of a thousand words

Some stand like a bunch of tulips on my paper

others smile at my fingers

Prophecies of a coming night

into the ears of the morning

A night unlike other nights that sank into the sea

and possessed plagues and viruses

but a night that burn the whole world from the middle east.