Behind Eyelids A Great Stillness

A Poem by Blash A. Flizot

Close your eyes and wait for the Qana
They kill their own. Rice, corn, potato–
waited so long–the horror of barren fields.
This kind of the terror force
does not fall within itself, cannot,
conflicted with the extremely easy strategy,
the taking of legs, the taking of hands,
the collecting of eardrums and wigs,
the institution of hunger and deficiency.

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