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The Dictators

Rating: 3.1
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
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COMMENTS
Subhas Chandra Chakra 27 September 2017
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth, whose large blind leaves grow even without light. Hatred has grown scale on scale, Great poem, thanks poet.
6 1 Reply
Dedrick Estiltaph 15 December 2009
I'm a fan as well. Nice work Pabloh.
11 12 Reply
John Tiong Chunghoo 13 July 2006
lovely this poem pablo. i can relate.
12 13 Reply

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