POUR LES INCULTES.
We fell in love, with dust in our lids
And the pain of a severed soul
We lowered our heads and lifted our face
Placed our bodies in celebration
On the lips of a mutilated man
...
I carry the bones of a deformed child
And my own polluted breath
I speak the old man's words
In a persuasive eloquence
Bless the dust that hides
This
(
Read more... )