today we run
with our faces beating against a wind
that blew the roofs over our houses,
our bodies aflame
in our dreams
where there’s never a scream or a sound
of dying

we never knew the scent
of our mothers’ skin
save the ones who’ve helped them with bloodied needles
to stitch together red flags
of unrest
or apathy,
their prison-marked sons digging tunnels beneath barbed wires
to smuggle jars with moths and metaphors
trapped inside
for want of a freedom
too apolitical for their governments

today we run
across a morning
devoid of dewy blades of grass
or a marble sky
as was promised in poetry,
and down at the tangerine docks
awaits shipments of daffodil bouquets
addressed for the slaughterhouse
selling severed limbs of confetti candy-men
who tried to keep our children
off the automated rifles.

— Satyaki Mitra

 

Workers in the snow, Edvard Munch (1912)

 

 

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