The Last Harvest - Poem by Leslie Philibert
A forest without moonlight
A moon with no light
If there would be moonlight
there would be the shapes of trees.
But there is no moonlight.
Harvesters work the fields.
Ivory faces with the eyes of owls.
Slices of animals; bloodcorn; plant
the crops of Treblinka and Verdun.
We have stolen the passion of the killing.
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