Oilslam - Poem by Artchil Daug
Those dwellers of the sand
covered the moon with blood
that Wednesday afternoon when
the empire went into the mud
and all it took was a cry
in the cave of His shadow
from the dirge of prayerful slaves
sleeping with what they hallow.
Mists of sand covered their eyes
with the mirage of paradise
beyond the stars and galaxies
of their self-inflicted lies;
beneath the humming of machines
and other running doodads
on this oasis cradled in an ocean
of oil mined by nomads.
Here they stand with a longing
for the moon's second coming.
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