we were there punching a line across sand
when
a bomb went off somewhere not far from our
caravan
dust
is always right in your eyes
so when
you turn to the left and see
fire
and smoke that
let's you know
we had 18 more bodies to throw on the back wagon
streaching for miles in every direction
the blood trails
that go from capitol hill
to the king of sane
water flows over graves
mercury rises to stain all his enimies
pain pagons weeping inside your democracy
faith father fevers the dreams
for his empathy
will there still be
any slaves left
when we purge all the commies
and muslims
and buddhists
2
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make smaller graves
for the dead
put halos on their heads
put wreaths around the bed
we keep the small hearts
weeping
still feet first
and sleeping
stay awake
i won't sleep with you
i have nightmares to retire to
chase the god of envy through the piles
of dead things at my feet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem