It might be the autumn old as myself on the edge
of winter's gray touch, or it might be that crimson
not of dawn or dusk after, before dark, but of life.
from children sprayed on rubble of bombed homes
and dreams. Chilled becomes dumb to much but
the lives torn not withered but budding from
the arms that carried them and hang limp
themselves crushed between collapsed floors.
It could be autumn, light tired as myself, or
it could be mass death celebrated by those
who rotted from the inside but stand while
felling entire cities and nations.
20.10.-01.11.2024
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