I love this.
we are lost here, where
pints of blood are maps showing distance between parallel skulls
alternating their bodies in metronomes,
of songs flowing in famine and falling from the lips of ghosts
into the chest of a little boy who now sing like burning leaves
in eyes of his calm mother,
his cries are elegies to bony rivers.
here, guns speak of graves multiplying even bodies with sands
in a parenthesis of blazing children.
here, a merry of bombs
there, catacombs of wishes chewing living dreams
with famished silences of stinks.
o home, images of lost fathers now
find crying women on your burning heels
who trail carcasses of their daughters
to a home of blaring cushions for all tired nations.
bones are now castles of crumbs diluted in mourning dews,
so in this place, flames of nameless children
know the texture of tears
and how to sew it for…
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