Monday, 11 September 2017
You do not make an eye contact with a thing,
Even though dead men don’t tell tales.
By a mad miracle,
Poverty assaults your ego,
And your heart and guts hung hooked.
Night comes black,
And breath deserts you,
Lifeless, a corpse, just a thing!
Tongues fall quiet,
When dead men finally meet.
But anyway, dead men don’t tell tales, they are all just the same.
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