If he couldn't invite
his muse to sit on his
lap, now and then,
it would all be
just death in the news,
ink on paper,
words of the long
dead, words of the recently
departed, words after words,
those Phoenician inventions
running across screens, telling
of the funerals of martyrs,
burning villages, cities broken
and pulverized, videos of the mocking
faces and voices of feted war criminals,
it would all be just that,
a broken world and words
against the flood,
art racing the rising tide
of crimson waves from
a bleeding a world,
without his muse
sitting on his lap,
swaying on his lap,
bending over to pick
up his fallen pen,
bringing him up,
it would be just
a world of death
and words crumbling
under the hammer strikes
of falling bombs, without
his muse swaying on his lap.
09.02.2025
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