From This

The bloom of fire
On the sand horizon
Reminds me of your tenderness.

That life is memory
As fantasy,
A million years
And lands from blood
And guns and targets
Speaking gibberish
And likely hiding death.

They shot my friend
A week ago.
He screamed until his agony
Became the ambience,
The scrapping constant.
I am not convinced
You ever crawl,
Escape,
Return from this.

- 7/1/25

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