Kiwifruits march in formation
with camouflage of loss and anger,
with iron of target and eager.
Jungle is frigidly waiting while
silence is the only setting.
Nerves turn every caresses of
tender leaves to Hulk’s punches.
The body gets hungry when dipping
in swamp dressing, for crispy caesar,
but no one is victor.
Which one is louder, fierce volley or
the final twenty-one salute?
You kept running, but there were no EXIT.
The last thing you see is moss on your
headstone, standing at the lonely green.