From the hand of every foe

I can feel the blood
in the morning’s rain.

Clouds hang ominous
before the sun’s warmth.

All voices are foreign,
sharp and barbed,

echoes of the concrete rage
hidden by plain face.

Red words follow
along the dirty walls,

divided by circle and cross,
dark numbers on signs.

Silently, I mumble.
May You rescue us from the hand of every foe.

I can feel the blood
in the morning’s rain.

Clouds hang ominous
before the sun’s warmth.

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