Galicia Returns

Pale lines drag themselves
across burning visions,

painted by one,
Who, in himself,

the hisses and snaps of northern
Now recreated in a

basin, blood and fire
of Donetsk by
the hand of Bandera,

tearing away the turf,
Opened graves

where daemons dare to
raise the dead
from the breadbasket,

Fertilising the dirt –
Poisoned wheat,

with the guilt of
years past,
years future,

Capital passed from regime
to junta,
With the cries of

Babi Yar ringing,
ringing in the ears of the
working dead.

babi yar


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