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Friday, August 14, 2015

The Babies' Cry

Morbid days and morbid nights,
Trees that no longer live,
Blood in grandmother's hands,
Red fluid that bled thick.
The blood now powdered
By her hands that crushed
The necks of mint leaves.
Baby faces on the walls
Painted yellow and pink.
The same faces haunt at night,
Nights that remind them to laugh,
Laugh and giggle
Over their dead bodies
Thrown in the kitchen garden.
Trees that no longer live,
Plants that died in grief,
The tiny yellow leaves
Of the stems that grew on the bodies,
The roots that captured the hearts.
The blood is now powdered,
Maybe underneath grandmother's pestle.
The mortar smells of rotten flesh,
Grandfather's misery and mother's tears.
The babies laugh as they protest,
They would have bled every month anyway.
Ten dead babies and a newly born,
Grandmother's love and souls torn.
Let the baby live
That bleeds only once
At the time of its death
And not every month...

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