The Corona flower blossom
on the tree of civilizations graceful branches.

Death drips drop by drop,
trickling over the lifeless city.

The pale sky has turned into
the Goddess of Death's bloodshot eyes.

Where is the end to the struggle
on desolate roads a barren evening

descends; with what can't be seen
that can not be felt,

to the death duel with the COVID
that lurks beyond masked senses.