End of the day,
it slips beamless
away and you
didn't even
finish that Yeats
of beast, demon
and the freeman
you forced into a raw,
slow, muddy flow
of unhewed words;
it and everything
left lying where
your mind dropped
them, casually,
for the bleak coming
day - and how many
will be murdered
while you sleep
the content sleep
of the privileged
word-player, asleep
when entire families
will be torn into dead
flesh, their blood
writing on the dust
harsh verses
that need no translator.
16.03.2026
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