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Blood moon

The tents of the Red Moon
move along with the verge
of the fury, I can no longer

hope, sleep, watch the moon
the blood of the setting sun
that she washes from her body

the blood from which she rises
for her daily work
on the decayed

And I, I wash myself in my tears
for the dead in the holy fire
that drove us away, sorry

sorry that we went, not died
there is really no devil in us
we know we are human beings

on the world to help each other
isn't it, especially when it's raging?
Amsterdam, February 26th, 2019
Poem 2129
Translation of poem 0468. Bloedmaan (September 26th, 2015)

Palestine (Lebanon in 2014)

Hexagram 18
Collection  Short Sermons
Zywa