6 May 2012
Blood wringed from tattered shirts, Drenched in salty water, And tied around his wound.
Staring at the shapes streaking above, He thought he saw a figure knelt, Tearing grass from soil.
Sackville street took it hard, It wept and screamed for his loss, The tears of fire raged for days.
The figure bowed and swayed, A ragged cloth cartwheel, Turning in on itself.
Caught in the gut on Moore st. After breaking through the walls, His freedom was a death knell.
His eyes now fixed and glazed, On a mirror, echo from the past, Grass stains round his mouth.
Reflections • Opuss № I