Depression has become a common affliction in today's stressful society. It can result from many factors, including social pressures, the daily toxic political abusers, psychological stressors, and our own biological makeup, and unwelcome events in our lives can lead to an exacerbation of symptoms. Stress is a big part of life, it is something that cannot be avoided, so we have to find ways to deal with it .
One of the most important things in life, that I have always have helped me personally is the beneficial effects of laughter and humour. I've tried drugs and alcohol to try and pick me up, sometimes they have, but sometimes they haven't..
Ive long come to the conclusion though that laughter is the best medicine for the soul. More than just brightening up your day, sharing a good laugh can actually improve your health. The sound of laughter draws people together in ways that trigger healthy physical and emotional changes in the body.Laughter can reduce stress, anxiety, and depression, strengthen your immune system, and diminish pain.
But we should also remember that not everyone is in the mood for humour so we should try to be aware of the sensitivity of others. And when Theresa May and her Tory' chums laugh at us all the time, in their mocking and sneering way almost on a daily basis , it often leaves me with a rather unpleasant feeling. I am reminded too that theirs is a sick form of laughter, used only for derision. It's not as if they have suddenly developed a sense of humour, no, not at all. And if their laughing for no reason, perhaps they should take some medicine for it.
However baring that in mind genuine laughter that actually tickles the funny bones,seems to help blow away the cobwebs of my mind and help reduce negative emotions. Yes we are living in seriously unfunny times but because humor is associated with lightness and feeling good, it can help stave off political fatigue and bring people together it’s easier to connect over laughter than hopelessness.
So because of that I try to laugh back at the Tory's on a daily basis, it certainly helps. After all they are the biggest joke in the land at the moment., its easy to laugh at them, it's fun too, but off course there are other ways. Oh and why do we never hear much of thieves stealing from the Tory's, I'll tell you why professional courtesy. I don't really approve off political jokes it sees to many Tory's getting re elected..
Right I'll end with this little confession I once gave up my seat to a blind person that's how I lost my job as a bus driver. Always laugh if you can, within reason. laters.
Friday, 28 July 2017
Wednesday, 26 July 2017
Blessed are the Poets : Dedicated to the memory of Anthony ' Trance ' Jones; Bardd/Poet, R I P
Consciously committed
Communicators of life
Weavers of magic
Holding up their light.
Devoted practitioners
Understanding the power of words
Trying not to be silent or aloof
Releasing words of significance.
Torrents of imagination
Releasing words of significance.
Torrents of imagination
In doorways of navigation
Conveying thoughts of joy and sorrow
From transient passing shadows borrow,
Daring to question, feeling every emotion
Unbound by retraint or hesitation,
Spoken from the heart
Spreading their messages true,
Random sparks touching others
Before their work is done,
Random sparks touching others
Before their work is done,
That remain in memory
Words lasting forever,
In the embers of time
Words lasting forever,
In the embers of time
A rustling grain of truth.
Labels:
'#poetry
Tuesday, 25 July 2017
Frank O'Hara : Poet of intensity and passion.(27/3/ 1926 - 25/7/1966)
In the early morning of 24 July 1966 the poet Frank O'Hara was struck and gravely injured by a passing jeep on the beach of Fire Island, and tragically died the following day of a ruptured liver, aged only 40...
Frank O’Hara was born Francis Russell O’Hara in Baltimore, Maryland and grew up in Grafton, Massachusetts. In order to hide the fact that he was conceived out of wedlock, his parents led him to believe that he was born in June while in reality he was born in March.After serving in the U.S. Navy during World War II, he graduated from Harvard University with a degree in English in 1950 and received his M.A. from the University of Michigan in 1951. He then moved to New York City and began his advancement through creative society.becoming employed by the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA). selling postcards, where he would eventually work his way up to the Associate Curator of Painting and Sculpture position.
His quick ascension speaks to the passion, knowledge, and enthusiasm he had for the New York City art world, a world that was thoroughly infused into his writing. During the 1950s and 1960s, O’Hara befriended and championed the new downtown artists, curated exhibits, wrote monographs and catalog copy, writing introductions for exhibits and tours and expressed his various and unusual ideas about the art world in his own poetry.
"I can't even enjoy a blade of grass," he once wrote, "unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life." O'Hara was deeply involved in the New York art scene, particularly with the work of abstract expressionist painters such as Willem De Kooning, Jackson Pollock,Jasper Johns and Franz Kline. Between 1953 and 1955 he worked as editorial associate for Art News, for which his poet friends John Ashbery and James Schuyler also wrote. In 1955 he rejoined the staff of MOMA, where he was appointed assistant curator in 1960.
In fact, O’Hara famously wrote Lunch Poems (largely regarded as his most brilliant and important work) during his lunch breaks at the MoMA. Published in 1964, Lunch Poems, according to John Ashbery, destroyed “the congealed surface of academic poetry.”
During his lifetime he was known as "poet among painters," part of a group of such poets who seemed to find inspiration and support from the painters they chose to associate with.He attempted to produce with words the effects those artists had created on canvas.
O'Hara is best known for his poems, such as 'A Step Away From Them', 'Why I am Not a Painter', and 'The Day Lady Died' (an elegy for Billie Holliday, but some of his later longer poems, in particular 'In Memory of My Feelings' and 'Biotherm (for Bill Berkson)' are equally effective, and have proved influential on a host of younger poets.)
He was a catalytic figure at the intersection of writing, art, dance and music at a seminal time in the US that post war moment when American artists began to assert originality after long being overshadowed by Europeans.
In an essay entitled "Personism: A Manifesto," O'Hara sheds some light on his views towards poetry, declaring that "Nobody should experience anything they don't need to, if they don't need poetry bully for them." In essence, O'Hara wanted poetry to be a personal, spur-of the-moment spontaneity in which abstraction is ruled out in favor of an expression of the artists personal voice or style. A poet of intensity and immediacy, his voice confessional guided by an unchecked passion. I love his work.
Known throughout his life for his extreme sociability, passion, and warmth, O'Hara had hundreds of friends and lovers throughout his life, many from the New York art and poetry worlds. O'Hara was openly homosexual at a time in which this was less acceptable, and often wrote about his sexuality. For example , the poem "At the Old Place" describes dancing at a gay bar. Furthermore Lunch Poems is dedicated to his friend and lover Joe LeSeuer, with whom he lived for about 11 years until his death.
O'Hara published six books of poetry from 1952 until his death. He is buried in Springs Cemetery on Long Island.Since his death his mystique , and the seductive power of his work, combined with the depth and richness of his achievements as a poet and art critic have been recognized by an international audience. His work constantly popular with readers and never out of print.
Here are a selection of some of my favourite poems, by him, difficult choice, so many to chose from.
Why I'm not a painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.
Melancholy Breakfast
Melancholy breakfast
blue overhead blue underneath
the silent egg thinks
and the toaster's electrical
ear waits
the stars are in
"that cloud is hid"
the elements of disbelief are
very strong in the morning
The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."
"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.
And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.
And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"
"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."
"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
Heart
I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.
Labels:
#poetry# Frank o'Hara #biography
Monday, 24 July 2017
Dear Nick Cave
Dear Nick Cave who I truly have long admired, are you really happy to appease the Israeli regime, like Radiohead recently did, to the anguish of their many fans, because at moment this state is now executing a genocidal war against 2 million Palestinians (most of them children) in besieged Gaza:
"At least 30 hospitals, 70 primary health care centres and a blood blank are at risk of full or partial closure due to continued power outages and not enough fuel or spare parts for back-up generators" https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20170722-who-gaza-health…/
Israel openly uses culture as a form of propaganda to justify its illegal occupation of Palestine. Just as South African anti-Apartheid activists called for an international boycott which led to the downfall of the Apartheid regime, Palestinians are asking for a boycott of Israel as part of the Boycott Divestment Sanctions (BDS) campaign. Thousands of artists across the world now refuse to perform in Israel.
The cultural boycott of Israel continues to grow, despite the efforts by Israeli promoters to ignore it.
More than 1,200 UK-based artists and cultural workers have signed Artists for Palestine’s online pledge to refuse to perform or exhibit in Israel and nearly 460 have signed a similar pledge in the US.
In New York City alone, nearly 300 artists have endorsed the cultural boycott.
I urge you to to read Ben Ehrenreich's 2016 book 'The Way to the Spring', and Max Blumenthal's 2015 book 'The 51 Day War, so that you can understand the reality of the situation for Palestinians under occupation'.
Pease add your name to the list and respect the boycott.
Sunday, 23 July 2017
Johnny Cash - Sunday morning coming down.
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
Labels:
# music # Johnny Cash
Friday, 21 July 2017
No apologies
Frozen moments preserve my presence
Time keeps tumbling on and on,
Slowly but surely I trip over the fear
Clouds are passing over wounds,
Medication soothes the brain
The rain releases the gift of affirmation,
Laughter escapes from the darkness
Out of this trust engulfs,
To allow the cultivation of breath
Inner reason that speaks my truth,
Continuing journeys of navigation
Avenues of concentration,
To allow destruction to disappear
For peace to visit sanctuary,
Though life will always be a struggle
Friends I will always respect,
Mind occasionally exhausted
Will be rebellious, offer no apologies.
Labels:
#poetry
Wednesday, 19 July 2017
Anais Nin (21/2/03 - 14/1/77) - You have a right to experiment with your life.
" You have a right to experiment with your life. You will make mistakes. And they are right too. No, I think there was too rigid a pattern. You came out of an education and are supposed to know your vocation. Your vocation is fixed, and maybe ten years later you find you are not a teacher anymore or you're not a painter anymore. It may happen. It has happened. I mean Gauguin decided at a certain point he wasn't a banker anymore; he was a painter. And so he walked away from banking. I think we have a right to change course. But society is the one that keeps demanding that we fit in and not disturb things. They would like you to fit in right away so that things work now.”
Sunday, 16 July 2017
The taste of magic (After Tinariwen, Cardigan Castle 15/7/17)
Fierce calm descended
Near a brimming river,
African guerrillas released magic
Sky donned its celestine cloak;
People danced and swayed
Sipping wine, feeling nourishment,
Shadows stole kisses of friendship
And the scent of memories.
Devotees captivated under moon
Moved together in space,
Rhythms soothing, licking minds
Haunting music carrying treasure,
From the Sahara sharing subtle beauty
Songs of dignity, freedom and unity,
Dispensing to all rolling guitar
Music flooded into souls,
From Mali, desert blues uplifting
Love has no ending.
Labels:
#poetry # music
Saturday, 15 July 2017
Lost Songs of Palestine
Despite the precariousness of the peace that exists in the region, the Palestinian voice still resonates.
Lost Songs of Palestine is a collection of traditional folk songs which have been sung by generations of Palestinians, but which have been recently overshadowed after years of occupation. With an outstanding performance by the world music group ANATOLIA, Lost Songs of Palestine captures the essence of a time long past and a future long awaited. Lost Songs of Palestine is a masterpiece which will inspire both Arabic and non-Arabic listeners.
The CD features both solo improvisations (taqasim) as well as ensemble works (both vocal and instrumental) representing traditional Palestinian urban and village music. Some of the songs are found in other parts of the Arab world where they are sung in popularized versions. But for Westerners, Lost Songs of Palestineis a new opportunity to learn about the culture and rich musical heritage of an ancient people.
ANATOLIA is a western Massachusetts-based group of talented musicians whose love and dedication to Middle Eastern music has earned them wide acclaim from both ethnomusicologists and audiences at sold-out performances. The musicians of ANATOLIA perform on authentic Middle Eastern folk music instruments including kanun (zither), baglama (long neck lute, also known as saz), divan sazi (large baglama), ud (short neck lute, also known as oud), klarnet (clarinet), keman (violin), nay (end blown flute, also known as ney), bandir (also known as deff), riqq (tambourine), mazhar (large tambourine), darbuka (dumbek), tabla, zills (finger cymbals) and vocals.
Lost Songs of Palestine includes: Weyn A Ramallah, Arrozana, Dommak Doom, Ya Meet Masa, Marmar Zamaani, Ala Dal'oona, Ya Hweydalak, Housnak Ya Zeyn, Mouwashshah Lamma Bada Yatathanna and Al Yadil Yadi.
ANATOLIA's first CD Folk Songs and Dance Music of Turkey and the Arab World was released in 1996. Lost Songs of Palestine was released in February, 2001. Middle Eastern Songs and Dances for Children was released in 2005.
Founded in 1994 and directed by Edward J. Hines, ANATOLIA is dedicated to the preservation of folk, classical and dance music traditions of the Middle East. The musicians of ANATOLIA strive to bring a new understanding of Middle Eastern cultures to Western audiences, while celebrating music and dance traditions its members have known since childhood.
From Edward Hines Music :- http://www.hinesmusic.com/Anatolia.html.
Friday, 14 July 2017
China's Nobel Laureate ,dissident leader and human rights hero Liu Xiaobo dies.
Chinese Nobel Peace Prize laureate and writer Liu Xiaobo, who was imprisoned since 2009 for calling for more freedom in his country, has died. He was recently released into hospital for treatment after being diagnosed with terminal liver cancer but died yesterday from multiple organ failure whilst under heavy armed guard.
The death of the 61-year-old dissident and veteran of the Tiananmen Square protests in 1989 has sent shockwaves through China’s activist community and among human rights campaigners across the world. In Hong Kong, about 100 democracy activists protested outside China's liaison office.
Angela Merkel, the German chancellor, said Mr Liu was a "courageous fighter for civil rights and freedom of expression", while the Norwegian Nobel Committee accused Beijing of having a “heavy responsibility for his premature death”.
Rex Tillerson, the United States’ Secretary of State, expressed condolences over the death of Mr Liu and called on Beijing to release his wife, the poet Liu Xia, and allow her to leave China.Mr Liu's wife had been placed under house arrest in 2010, but was allowed to see him at the hospital as her husband's health deteriorated over the past couple of weeks before he died. Rights groups and Western governments have mourned Liu Xiaobo's death and also called for authorities to grant his wife Liu Xia and the rest of his family freedom of movement. Her fate will now be the centre of concern among human rights groups.
Amid increasingly desperate calls from supporters for him to be granted his dying wish to receive treatment for his condition abroad, Mr Liu remained in China where he died on Thursday evening, local officials said.His friends claim China’s refusal to allow him to travel overseas was an attempt to shorten his life, and ensure he could not criticise Beijing in his final moments.Beijing had repeatedly dismissed foreign criticism of its treatment of Mr Liu, saying that it is an internal affair.
Sophie Richardson, China director at Human Rights Watch, said: “The Chinese government’s arrogance, cruelty, and callousness are shocking – but Liu’s struggle for a rights-respecting, democratic China will live on.”
Mr Liu was born to an intellectual family in Jilin province in China’s northeast and led a life of fearless activism.The former professor of literature at Beijing Normal University wrote about the value of individual freedoms and nonviolent resistance.
He was influential at the Tiananmen Square protests, which ended when tanks rolled into central Beijing killing hundreds, possibly over a thousand protesters.Mr Liu was said to have saved the lives of many students when he negotiated between the army and protesters as they ended their occupation of the square.
Liu Xiaobo was one of China’s preeminent dissident writers and activists.Devoted not only to the end of China's one-party rule but also to the absolute necessity of replacing it with a democratic system, he was committed to non-violent protest. He was arrested in December 2008 on the eve of the release of Charter 08,https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charter_08 an extraordinary declaration he had co-authored calling for political reform, greater human rights, and an end to one-party rule.
This bold manifesto, which was signed by more than 10,000 people after it went online, calls for the protection of basic human rights and the reform of China's one-party system.
- Words seen 'as crimes' -
Western governments, rights groups and fellow activists repeatedly called for his release.
Charter 08 specifically demands the abolition of subversion as a criminal offence.
"We should make freedom of speech, freedom of the press and academic freedom universal, thereby guaranteeing that citizens can be informed and can exercise their right of political supervision," it says.
"We should end the practice of viewing words as crimes."
Liu was subsequently held under ‘residential surveillance’ in a windowless room for more than six months. In June 2009, he was formally charged and transferred to the Public Security Bureau Detention Centre in Beijing,where he reported an improvement in his conditions; he was allowed outside and had detainees in his cell with whom he could talk. On 25 December 2009, Liu was convicted of ‘incitement to subversion’ for his role in Charter 08 and for several online articles. He was sentenced to 11 years in prison.
Liu spent much of his adult life as a target of the Chinese government. He played a crucial part in the 1989 pro-democracy movement, staging a hunger strike in Tiananmen Square in support of the students and leading calls for a sustainable democratic movement. He helped negotiate the safe exit from Tiananmen Square of thousands of student demonstrators on the night of June 3-4, 1989 when the military bloodily suppressed six week-long protests in the heart of Beijing.Despite spending two years in prison for his role, he continued to speak out in favour of freedom of expression and democracy. As such, he spent an additional three years in a re-education-through-labour camp (1996-1999) and was regularly detained and harassed until his most recent arrest.
Liu had been a prominent member of PEN http://www.pen-international.org/ and served as president of the Independent Chinese PEN Centre (ICPC), which does on-the-ground advocacy work in China despite constant pressure from the authorities. In 2010 Liu Xiaobo was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his long and non-violent struggle for human rights in China. Liu was the first Chinese citizen to win the Nobel Peace Prize and one of only three people to have won it while detained by their own government. He was the second Nobel laureate to die in custody after German pacifist Carl von Ossietzky, who passed away in a hospital under the Nazis in 1938.
"I want to tell the regime that is withholding my freedom: I have no enemies," Liu wrote in an essay that was published worldwide in 2010. Liu included police officers, public prosecutors and judges in his statement. "I do not accept your surveillance, your confinement, your judgements," he wrote. "But I do respect your professions and your personalities." He added: "Hatred corrodes the wisdom and the conscience of a human being. Demonizing others can poison the spirit of a nation, destroy tolerance and humanity, and block the path to progress and democracy. I hope to be able to respond with best intentions to the hostility of the regime, and to defuse hatred with love."
The text was read out on the stage when Liu was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize on December 10, 2010. The Norwegian Nobel Committee honored Liu for his long and non-violent fight for fundamental human rights in China. An empty chair sat where he would have were he not in prison.
This is a sad moment for human rights, but Liu Xiaobo leaves behind a powerful legacy to inspire others to continue the struggle for human rights in China and around the world.
A poet, scholar, and courageous advocate, Liu Xiaobo dedicated his life to the pursuit of democracy and liberty. With courage and dignity he inspired millions. I hope he is the last victim in China's long record of treating words as crimes. It's leaders should bow their heads in collective shame.
Liu Xiaobo - One letter
one letter is enough
for me to transcend
and face you to speak
as the wind blows
past the night
uses its own blood
to write a secret verse
that reminds me each word
is the last word
the ice in your body
melts into a myth of fire
in the eyes of the executioner
fury turns to stone
two sets of iron rails
unexpectedly overlap
moths flap toward lamp
light, an eternal sign
that traces your shadow
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