My friend…by G. Mramor


My friend, what pasts do you alone feel?

what voices can you not be free of?

what have you seen in all your time?

Did you see the oceans, filled with prescient strife, form the land?

Did you see the land, filled with prescient fury, mold the clay?

Did you see the clay, filled with strife filled with fury filled with estranged ideas, begin to breathe?

Then you heard the child, the cruelest man, run,

Then you heard the child, the heaviest blows, quiet,

And then you saw the child, the coldest body, no more on the floor

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