Zinta Aistars Another War Story Irrigated minefields - these forays into the past, these ventures into the future, dancing between blows, skating on dynamite, on a TNT hammering heart. So I have a few flaky dreams left. Just two, just three, just one lonely dozen. Moistened with a kiss that wandered loose from its mark. I sense stray hopes looming, lost sheep to count for those who cannot sleep, but dream awake, staring, staring down shadows so hard sight illuminates shapes - real or imagined, only morning will tell - trace the ragged edges of mismatched faces, old, young, worn, with scars stitched like pearl necklaces where yet unclaimed dreams shine in the dark like teeth.