Torment after torment

​The swooping crows
​lay their sadness.
​And the dead bodies
of ​the youthful and the old.
Lie twisted and bent
in the early morning snow.
“He’s my son “
Says the mother.
As she picks up her frozen
child, dead to the world.
And the frontiers of
freedom, and life diminish.
The world watches,
and goes back to a
dazzling coma.
And the long nights of
hatred, begin again.

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