The Third Coming

The shrill voices of strangulated miniatures have filled the innocent air
Their sweats are oozing
And their fragile carcasses are crumbling apart
What else
Lest of the rupture of their suppressed protruded bellies

They yearned for the disintegration
Not of their uniformity
But the utmost wish of being free men

The ganders have filled their purses
They have pecked to death the newly born males
And they are blind now
Because they are full
And the carcasses are weaker than ever
Impoverished by their hands…
Traitors that no longer see others but themselves

Who are they?
Orient them of their identity
They are nothing themselves but eggs sealed with iron;
And the iron, they are always playing with
And the iron, they value less like a cigarette butt

But tell them
That the irons are their souls;
When they play with them
Their center will disfigure
The falcon would never hear the falconer,
The blood-dimmed tide will be loosened, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence will be drowned

But finally, the feathers will fly
The third coming will have its due
And the wind will flow freely to all the traitors.


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