Half of yesterday's cold gone,
just minus ten instead of minus twenty-two,
I watch the afternoon quickly grow dark
beyond the window-panes, translating
words of the long dead and ethnically
cleansed, wait for the coffee to drop
as the blue goes from the snow
and gloom embraces the landscape,
a chill lover entering, uninvitedly, a bed
which love and lust have left a bombed-out
ruin of memories faintly calling from
under the rubble of years.
And real people die under
real ruins and not one statesman
calling for their rescue -
their death of no importance -
as I entomb myself in poems,
words that make sentences
into verses and do nothing
to keep out the cold
burning in human minds.
05.12.2023
#Poem #Poetry #Poems #Verse
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