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Poem 2
Thrown into an icy infinity
of long dead hopes and
black tomorrows
the dust of the street snuffs the last
spark of life in a worker’s lungs
A victim in this white abyss
has fallen for the last time
in a pool of Red
it belongs to the collective
of tortured, bent up humans more dead than the
deceased
A shot rings out in the hard night
so loud no one could hear
but the intrusive message seemed so clear
The white of love is not welcome
where the Red of all shall stain it
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