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,
The red light stops the thud.
But escape is still a long walk,
An endless road spreads out in the horizon.