Lèon Robinson's Dead Poem by Souren Mondal

Reclaim your sanity,
Reclaim yourself...


The words are spoken,
uttered in utter silence amidst the thunder,
The sky's filled with dark, black clouds,
The tress are on fire,



Hang yourself...
Do not hold on...



Why? 'Tis not worth it to live anymore,
Its not worth it to write anymore,



Don't bring disgrace,
Your mind's filled with boiling tar,
Cigarette buds on the floor,
Ashes, all around the bed



Let that bed be your funeral pyre
Do not drag this along anymore...



'My temples are sore,
Its burning in water'



Should I care?



Its you, who once trangessed so far,
Farther than your forefathers,

And maybe your children


You make me laugh,




I am impotent....


'Please stand in the line,
You'll be delivered.... '



Waiting all these times had got me maddened...

I am mad,
I make no sense





What had ever made sense, sire?
Lèon Robinson's dead,
Shot,
Dead,
In short,
Dead,



Demise, scroundels,
Murderers of art,
artful murders

You have played enough,
In vino veritas encore,
In aqua sanitas jamais


C'est la vie, mon ami artist,
No point struggling,
No use wriggling...


But how can I accept it?
How should I accept?


'Nothing's in the world is unacceptable,
Despair's worth every penny '



Leon Robinson,
He's dead, shot at the heart.