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 –