On the urine-plagued concrete floors,

Pale, sleepless faces,

Covered with clotted blood,

Smeared with hatred,

Swollen heads from the batons and iron-boots;

From the bolts of men in black hoods

Men who took reckless turns,

Algophilia,

In piercing hot, razor-sharp blades

Into the nude bodies;

Blood suckers, hungry,

Intoxicated with rotten rum;

Men who celebrate the transfer of innocent creeds

From room to room, hands to hands

Batons to batons, electrocutions, water-boarding

They take turns, over years

In condominiums, harboring night tortures;

Men in khaki, fathers, husbands

Leave their houses, innocent,

To fetch food for their families;

Night workers, gathering blood-money

And by the day, shine their teeth on us

Share cola-nuts with us at the bantaba.

They ignore the throe of other fathers who squirrel

Distinctive expressions of blatant pain.

Tell the night workers

That the wind will soon come;

The call of dawn will come

Not from the roosters this time

But from the countless widows and fatherless.

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