Crucified

All through the long nights
Almost deaf with crippling sounds
The dirty flashes of gunpowder…
Writing the new poems for the newborns

Smelling more fresh bloods
Tasting more burned fleshes
The triggers, warm and enthusiastic…
Writing the new poems for the newborns

Scripting the destructions, the ruins
Supplying the killing machines
The vultures, with smiling faces, exalted…
Writing the new poems for the newborns

All through the long nights
Almost dumb with crippling thoughts
My mind, like the frozen seas…
Too transfixed to write poems anymore

Watching the paintings of blood clots
Suffocating with the smokes of burned fleshes
My heart, like the exodus of the helpless
Too vulnerable to write poems anymore

Feeling the pains of the catastrophe
Realizing the mosaics of the killing machines
My soul, like the crucified Christ
Too humble to write poems anymore

3rd February 2023
©NilavroNill

NilavroNill Shoovro

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