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Buk Near Donetsk

<i>2014</i>

Beside the fields of rye and flax
there is a road that leads to birches,
pocked with dark puddles and tank tracks,
above which no white dove perches.

Green men pray to another Christ,
a Fulcrum falling overhead,
a saviour or a poltergeist,
the sun behind it, fierce and red.
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Friday, August 28, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: war
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6/24/2021 10:05:54 PM # 1.0.0.634