one day we will remember
The sun we burried between our fingers
The sand before us
The dead dog
The unripe fruit
The white houses
The fire
The sound of broken glass
for we are not dreaming
The new light hunting us down in a heavier language
will hurt
The white scar around unborn children returning home between the wounds
will hurt
Poetry by Ghost of Heino
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Written on 2017-01-20 at 15:13
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Lawrence Beck |