After The Stampede

The dusk panics. 
Molten ash stings, bearing 
you down. Your enemy had penetrated 
very deep. 

Your pride shrinks. 
Infinite pains from moonlit streets 
climb up the palm trees 
to count the dead. 

You can not arbitrate in disputes 
of wind and flags. 

The night rolls down on the 
battered past. Your face becomes 
a broken clock. 

Color-blind, you will never― 
know the green recital 
of the spokesman.