Scalpels, dull and forgotten
Three Angels Sing Above the Street
calls silenced
withered flowers,
     cut by invaders carrying
     chauvinistic  scepters, drip in
     lust by false revival of minorities
    spirits who hunt smell
    of words in deadly games
These days of our distress
Blue moons silenced
In Pizza shops dripping from Dali paintings
fire from skies
     and joyless days
     same wine in stolen bottles
     and the same dregs
     poured over three glasses
days of glory, gone?
still they toil, hunchbacked and calloused
days of betrayal, now days of the gun
heavy with briny blood
      Does it have to be destiny?
      to see pain so perceived
      in miseries, time will forget
      we can plant poplar seeds
      in place of Headstones