Zywa
After the night
The soldiers come
suddenly, they shoot
the streets empty, we
don't fight, we take shelter
and crawl through the rooms
We hide us
survive the attack, afraid
to die, we dream
of death and misery
Smouldering it gets quiet
Smoke strands, dogs
are smelling at bellies
licking at lips
at cold vomit
in the gutter, a golden ring
lights up between beetles
the wind slams a door
Powder-smoke and stench
Coming to senses
Time to clean up
too late for anger
Only the last
word on the dead
that doesn't do them justice
and will never be able to do so
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