Oct 31, 2014

sand raft


24/08/1995. D1 0716

I sail in the bay of pigs.-
torches illuminate their tin muzzles.-
blunt as collision, the moon has fallen,
gull has today become the fear

we come with faces sprayed with mud;
we do not talk.
with an effort we build new tents,
waiting for the mob to reach us -
high guards to shut us down.
it is fear of the sea, a bonfire on the hill,
SUN THAT SENTENCED TO DEATH ARE LOOKING AT;
Those are good people, beaten to the bone -
small world on one line
                         of your dear chin.

and until dawn, with whip and all the strength
they beat tired and sick;
and in their hungry hands
they nail in wedges,

-and burn their faces

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