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  • Bonafide Voices

When The Flowers Wept

Mathew Thomas


This breeze that blows over the river,

Fills my lungs with acrid smell,

And masks the flowers scent,

What is this stench?

That lingers in the air,

In this burning light,

Where the countless sleep,

In shrouds that keep,

And from the flames,

I rise,

To the drumbeats,

On steel frames bent,

And watch the dance of death,

On that mighty chest,

An orator at his best,

For corpses can’t speak,

Of a nation’s shame,

For I am a witness,

When the flowers wept.



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