It is Krishna who did it

I have not made the war or these enemies,
Nor the clang of metal, nor the fall of dusk
Nor blind men, love of sons, blindfold eyes
Nor ivory dice with dots of five, four, three
Nor caves nor foreheads bleeding with truth.

I look at the fish-eyes, fight for fair maidens
Divide women into brothers, cry as they lose
Clothes for honor, never ending as Krishna.

My forehead is still bleeding for useless truth
In fluorescent letters, on the flanks of hills
Their trees precariously perched, from where
Women warriors jump on horses with babies.

A bearded man fought for his useless truth
In blazing skyscrapers with vaporous bodies
In a fall of truth struck by planes of beards
When in direct contact with a burning god
And fair maidens dancing in fire and water.
I have not made the war or burning enemies.
It is our Krishna who did it, blue as our sky.


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