Gently a flake fell past a window, the sign
of winter, but the flake was made of soot
yet was as perfect as one made of snow.
Snow has not fallen here for years, deadly
crystal, blood diamonds, yet of icy resolve
to eradicate us by volume and greed.
Flakes of soot, false snow made ideal by
a fake interpreter giving meaningless lift
to pompous speeches and sham grief.
Comments about this poem (the interpreter by oskar hansen )
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