huts in isolation
smokeless chimneys
a girl
in burqa holding
a meadow clover
motionless
near the cemetery gate
an old shepherd
benumbed by past watching
a tank stuck in a rut
he has cataracts
infantry troopers
marching past the milk bathed
cedar woods petrified
in the silence of the earth
underneath the blemishes of
an aged canopy is
another heaven
exalted by exuberance
here
there are secrets in the dark
here
death is frolicking in the snow
and only a quarter of the story is ever told/known
lord help us withstand these political jests
we say it’s ours
they say it’s theirs
isn’t it yours?
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