Body Count

The color of the rice fields is changing
with typhoon winds inducing stillbirth of anger.
The clouds expel the downpour like their protests,
the wind-pushed flood pushing away their pain.

Gunshots break the rank of farmers-
one, two, four bodies collapsing to the asphalt,
their blood spotting, splattering
on slippers left in haste.

With rifles aimed, soldiers eye militants
like dark clouds lingering. The sky clears,
as farmers hold silence in their fists
like washed-away grain.

The soldiers commence body count
of those desecrated by their bullets.