Death to the Oppressor

The distance of a breath
Between life and death

Morning sun warming up ...
Passersby walking their way
Up to the bus-stand.

The bend of the road
Ran through the heart

Detoxifying sympathy,
Driving senses out
Of existence.

A dream was trailing
The messenger of death.

Eyes did not meet,
But the soul saluted
The mind; was there a
Tinge of mischief in
The eyes? Or a sigh
Of relief?

Death may wait for
Another day.
The oppressors' doomsday!