• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 02
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On a plain December day, things that you did say,
carried by the wind, blowing the other way,
unacceptable to the blobs in the doorway,
finds a place in heresy.
A paper top hat, adorning the head,
a measure to contain the thoughts you had,
now filled with the voices of the dead,
speaking about the incandescent dread,
of the things these people did, things these people said.
You voice their chidings, their setting Kafkaesque,
shouting in their voice, about the freedom they never had,
for which they fought, for which they bled,
for which the blobs never had any respect.
To shut it out, their hands crumple the hat
to kill the voices, they thought they could, just like that
the hands cover the eyes too, to calm the maniac
but the voices then show you the world in a new format.
They tell – there is no point in your fight, no point in your revolt,
You are fighting the wrong people, society by default,
because the hands that crippled your freedom, the hands at fault,
lived under the same roof, shared the same salt.