Zywa
Careful for the thorns
Quickly, he runs down the stairs
to the budding rose bush
at the gate of the barracks
He cuts a bed of shoots
around his sandals and braids
– careful for the thorns –
a wreath of twigs
for the captive king
He will feel this crown
We'll hit it in his skull
Then we'll finish him
Maybe that will teach them
and we'll finally get rid of them
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