Shock. Horror.
A fresh wave of grief.
One shot. Two shots.
Two people. Dead.
Blood.
Bodies left for the shadows
to indulge.
Death:
metallic,
bitter.
Anger and frustration.
Those soldiers had no right.
I cried a river of blood;
in this goblet, a few drops,
crimson.
Mr. President:
Drink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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