...perhaps there is no room for conscience
in a world run by criminal negligence?
As a robber-and-a-thief,
I swear: there is a wound – and a night beyond relief.
Hate is much too mild a word
for that which I despise, to which I weld this curse:
Prince-of-this-world! Your feet are lice!
Your cloak is rot! Your halo – buzzing flies!
-- by an unknown poet from the Third Galaxy. In the Third Galaxy,
being unknown is a survival requirement. Synonyms for "known" poet are "disappeared" and "forgotten".
Don't know why I post this just now from the grab-bag of poems poems and scribble transmitted to me by the unemployed angel from the Third Galaxy, Man-u El-Ishman.
Perhaps I do it just to remind myself that, as bad as things seem sometime in a world so much under the rule of incompetent popinjays and outright socio-paths, things are much worse in the Third Galaxy, though small comfort that may be...
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