Processions.

We have the grand eloquence of

Lighting the fire in our hearths

From the burning pits, they call, hunger of others

Others who aren’t my brothers

Everyday I wake up to a procession

In honour of the dead of the day, the first

The fire in him died out, how sad, the depression!

Though my house, for fire, shall never thirst

In idleness prized, I have written long accounts of tragedy

Of a war hero, of a pining heroine and of vanity

By the candlelight, night after night

 Candlelight carved out of those other’s last sight.

There is but one small complaint, I must admit

The other’s processions earlier were few and silent

Now, through midnights till midnights, the other’s commit

To a prayer of wailing and cries of avowed violence.

Ignoring, I write another account of a king who slept badly

Who was in love with summers, and madly

Satisfied, I go to sleep and the music returns

This time louder, threatening and I twist and turn

Today, I dread to try to sleep

I know today, they’ll breach the barrier

I know today, they’ll steal their fire

Fire fed off of their hunger

Light stole off of their sight

Their procession today carries no dead

This lacking, they intend to fill

, I go to bed

And I wait, anytime now, blink and I’m their kill.

Now my funeral, a burning pyre

Their baecon of victory

And I’ll dissipate to the sky, dying twice for fire

A threat to the world, a decree.

Inspired by a book read a year ago, ‘Hunger’ By Knut Hamson, though the book is of an another misery altogether, this rendering is of a misery that I see, no different from a very desperate attempt at keeping dignity intact, as is the motto of every person I have met, in these five years of conscious note taking.

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