Friday, December 16, 2011


I became a stranger here
Before I knew it for sure.
I speak in a language forgotten
And I remember a history forsaken.

My eyes see ghosts in every doorway
And my ears hear words of the dead;
But my voice must have been discarded,
As my shabby shrivelled body was shed.

Acquiescence is met with indifference.
Protests draw sneering black scorn.
And it's best to expect more of nothing,
While praying that nothing will come of it.

Merchants and state see me as revenue
But they no longer value my labour.
At times I'm their temple's scapegoat,
Cruelly bled white for sins of my neighbour.

Mostly it seems sleep is my only true friend,
So I spend these ghastly winters in Elsinore:
Perhaps it's death's noxious dreaded nightmare
That bids me choose heartbreak instead of the horror.

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