Troubled Land

down there, my land
our voices are incinerated
none could call the alphabets
of his name
and even the dead bodies are taken
into the coffins by becks

when i was young
none could dare glare at death
but now there in my land
anywhere is a cemetery
and we all walk with our graves

i wanted to erase the comma
that grieved my men's lips
but down here, my chest
i could hear
a man blowing a clarinet
that has a tone of sorrow

sometimes a boy dreams
of flying like a canary
but down there, my land
we all dream on how the droplets
of rain would wet our skins
as the poets of death