The lose buckle belt knocks on my helmet,

dangling relentlessly across my head by the gushing wind.

It's a repetitive thud,

like drilling holes in the skull 

or hammering a nail on the coffins,

that squeal and squawk,

day and night.

Sometimes, I want to roll back to the past,

a cradle from which I spilled out,

one summer many years ago.

That home has turned into ashes, 

last autumn.

The red light stops the thud.

But escape is still a long walk,

An endless road spreads out in the horizon.