you sit at my table
and eat of my flesh
do my entrails warm you
of the cold outside
viscera visions of death
clouds my mind
while you lay bear my bones
does it amuse you
to watch me suffer so
for even a buzzard
shows pity
my heart pumps no more
from whence blood once flowed
a river
as dry as sand
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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