The sun sets as it rises
and each sunset
is a little death.
Patrolling the thin film of twilight,
Death haunts the living.
Razor scythe in hand, he imitates the invisible wind.
Smiling, he stands tall-
severing the fruit from the roots,
at this year’s famine-crop of young heroes.
He tramples their flowers.
He crushes their stems.
He grinds down their seeds with the heel of his black boot,
into the inhospitable clay-
there to mingle
with the bleached bones of their ancestors
by the grace and mercy of the Earth
there comes against all odds
a spontaneous germination,
and a new crop of disposable heroes takes root.
(9- 1- 79)
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