Neda

Neda

Eyes wide with sharp black pupils
saying „how about that?“ as they struggle
to locate the moment around the compass needle
of consciousness.

No point sharp enough for that,
no argument or plea counteracts the chilling fact
of the overriding bloody cataract
that streams across her face.

The eyes sink back, retreat,
convicted that there's a place to wait
while the force of death surmounts
them and the known is overwhelmed.

And still yet from this prone position
stunned pupils launch a question
of accutest sense and accusation,
why me, why her, why this?