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I have many contemporaries –

only I am not my contemporary –

 

I was born one day –

a sinful morsel

in a dish of morality –

a moment of flesh

imprisoned in the flesh –

 

Every word I conceive

kills itself at birth,

that which is saved

from suicide,

descends on paper,

but there, it is killed

by bullets–

 

once I got shot in Hanoi,

then in Prague,

 

later, smoke hung in the air –

as I died

a premature death –

 

I wonder if one day – some day –

 

I could be my contemporary –

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