Who is the first moth to burn in the fire of afterlife, the dictator or her colonial master?

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When did she decide not to recognize to accept the child in her lover when it is the same child that caused love to blossom in the first place?

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Why does love always arrive like a flower never meant to bloom in the desert

and

why does it always end like a thunderstorm that ravages the harvest?

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When reason is made of heart material,

are the fabrics destined to be shredded?

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And of leaves, big and small, what is there to be said, that they in falling die, or that in death they nourish the earth?

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Or is victory nothing more nothing less than the softest breeze, sweeping away the sun from a dry river bed and a withered heart?

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When I run out of questions that will not be answered

is that when death arrives

or when life begins?

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