Barbarous men with masks like men’s faces step heavily.
There is a peculiar tinge from the foreign sunset pooling with the dust
and it is remembered that gutters are not only for the rains.
There is terror in the air and the feet of the pursued are war drums
(pulse, pulse, the rumble of a slipping fault,
the shudder of foundation’s collapse, the suffocation
of a religious festival that sends too many to god).
They die and here it is winter. They die with ribs broken by batons
and because my toes are cold I wear socks with my slippers.
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