The day slept away,
all the golden hours
except at the dawn
missed, and here
at its warm end,
I sit and translate Yeats
and listen to the hum
of distant traffic
mixing with the songs
of birds, the front
door open to the night,
and part of me thinks
of the hours gone
and what might have
filled them, houses
collapsing and burying
alive entire families
as the missiles and bombs
keep falling, tearing
living human flesh
into pieces - that in Palestine,
and in West Papua,
instead of cities in rubble
being turned further to dust,
it's the flush highlands
where bombs fall
on villages, refugees,
in another genocide,
two long, open
wounds in the shared flesh
of our humanity.
19.05.2025
Verse Poetry Poems Poem
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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