Liberty
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By london_calling79
- 2388 reads
Two in the ass for being a fag,
a butterfly stuck fast in an inkwell.
Four columns of putrid ash stand tall,
and our dear Lorca’s dead and gone.
A cracked skull wound in the fertile world,
trapped in time and left hand paths.
To turn fraternal love to murder,
the marks of Cain still stain the earth.
A lonely son stands guard on streets
to alert the few who he has left.
His wife and child in the embrace of Mary
he perpetuates the grief he felt.
The death of one is too much for us.
The deaths of many, too much for you.
From yawning graves they mock your terror,
circle your coward meeting huddle,
as you increase their swollen ranks,
they laugh now at your impotence.
The gnawing winds die down in France
and martyr cowards flee the night.
Stars in tricolore distance tremor
and all your dead will come for you.
For France.
They will never be free from the crimes they commit.
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Comments
london calling Paris, I guess
london calling Paris, I guess it's always hard to figure what to say, in these godawful days. It's the backlash I fear, the defeat of libertie.
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A horrifying event...
A horrifying event...
A fine tribute...
at a loss for words...
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You did well to muster these
You did well to muster these words with great restraint. Agree with celt, but there also comes a time when you have to defend yourselves and what you value. That time may be close unless those who can effect a change of mood do so.
Parson Thru
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The strength is in the subtly
The strength is in the subtly of this piece. There's the feeing that there are no words, even though you found them.
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This piece really gets to me
This piece really gets to me from the third stanza on. It's heartrending and at the same time mixed with threat and the helplessness of it all.
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