The colorful mushrooms,
after the rain,
under dog-like clouds,
bloom.

The vultures whirled
in the dark-night breeze.
From the eyes
of the vultures,
the reflection
of mushrooms
in the lake
is an illusory dinner.

Then the vultures gather here,
they love a fruit—
pomegranate-colored.

It is salty in taste,
filled with white skulls
on the soil.

Vultures,
upon the corpses,
covered in thick snow,
draped in pale
& thin cloth,
chew.

Shadows stretch longer than
the terror of victims
before death,
with the vultures
swiftly moving
above the snow,
casting barbaric
black lightning.

When tired,
vultures can sit on a branch—
where do the souls
of the victims rest?

The dead
wear bullet holes
as broken stars,
far in the sky.

They are martyrs,
crawling
beneath the sword,
waiting
to fill the execution room
with the hearts of people.

Skulls,
just as ordinary as lunch
to those on thrones.

And also,
the souls of the suffering,
as lambs
on this land,
from then to now,
are only the vultures’
favored fruit.