lamentation for preta

the little man took the needle used to repair his cloth by some kind souls he met in a village during his journey,

and pricked the phantasm of demonic ogre standing in his way before him, who was like a wsieman's waylaying tiger.

and the ogre is transformed into a flurry of fuzzy, bubbly, orange shades of the sunlit-wood,

dispersed away from his upright path

what a cruel murder i've witness before me, he thinks.

and of it, I am my own perpetrator....

he ponders and is lost in thought, why has man invented the needle,

the cruelest instrument of assassination?

there is no mercy inside a thing that exists, why a sharp thing,

meant only for getting to the world's pointed end.