why nICHt?
Literary Magazine
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Poem
April, 2018
Sacre Tabac Sucre House of Street Sweepers
face of liberty
we know behind the hedge
they drew in closer to us

tobacco eyes
gazed into our pate
thick smoke
rose from their lips
burnt word-fragments
nested in our ears

Gaea renders unto us
no, not us – me
what is mine
the seed I bear
the logos I couldn’t
understand

The fire-bearer, I am to be
A sylvan thirteenth
tribe will sprout
neither slave nor master
neither mass nor hermit
but human beside human

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