it rains all day
we call it poetry
as we soak in it
marching for
our mother
the one we pollute
and rape
with machines
that penetrate deep
into her core
and we still
have the audacity
to call home

enough is enough
we say
and we walk
to the beating
of the drum

sometimes a wave
of cries washes over the crowd
and the boy next to me


while the girl
pours us tea
to keep
our bellies

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