Bullets homed into the hearts
To find resting peace
To hush down voices
Casting stones in words without
A need for a throwing hand
To flight
The destruction of the glasshouse
Impregnated in the iron clothing womb
Of the rock, with rockets all round
Ready on the coming of one stone
To return stones to litter the street
With bodies
And win obedience to the curfew
No flags, no chanting, or marching
The burial is another battle
Against freedom’ right of hatred
For dead bodies’ right to draw blood
In the hearts of the living
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