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
