In front of the PC, my son peeped at his God
Beyond the perforated windows
:"He sings love, whilst
Drinks off some bottles of Vodka, Dad!"
My son had been angry, since
the peeped God wasn't as great as the praised
in his grandfather's old Holy Script. Then
He put thousands macros into the PC, so that
the godliness would be killed intelligently
-Sri Wintala Achmad-
In the room all hands of o'clock
Hunted the little boy drooping beside steel door
Locked by his father having work for a day
-Sri Wintala Achmad-
As a best night's friend
The poet buried his dream for all stars
Into the poetry dug as a tomb
Before the sun would kill him again
In the other fighting
-Sri Wintala Achmad-
