Poets

Blacker than a grape, waist finer than a needle, how does the ant climb the slopes with its burden?

This won't do, it won't work! One day This disturbance will stop, you'll be born to the Sun. You'll see again like an old picture

I hoisted all my flags on the flagpoles, I painted the city with my blood's hot colour. I spread stones on the road that led to anger. I levelled towers with the back of my hand.