After writing poems
about geopolitics,
of the war crimes
blessed and approved,
of crimes against humanity
that bring forth adulation,
I write of small things,
about a mug of coffee
with milk and no sugar,
of a cheese sandwich
beside it on the table
at the far corner of the room,
that I just read ten pages
from a dead American
Nobel Prize in Literature
winner, and that soon,
in the light of this pale
morning of March,
I shall sleep, awakening
if I will, into early evening,
into the last light in the dusk
before the night returns.
06.03.2025
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