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Mistakes

I’d hear small quibble quick

Voices meek, weak a little sick

Wrongdoing, man is judged in his ways

The fruit of his doing, the words he will say

Small talks go on about

Large monumental actions

Unfounded and with doubt

Splits a race into factions  

Discrimination facing the faces

Dividing relations splitting to races

Leaving traces of civilization in places

Of ruins, this ancestral home belonged to them before

Have we forgotten or will we too know no more

Of this grave as we bury ourselves in this state of decay

Talks of bright futures fade, tomorrow will never be today

What will remain will be our remains that will stay

And on top of our soils we will be built on

The same as we have done

Time — it waits for none.

Categories: poetry

Tagged as:

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.

2 replies

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