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Rats
Louis Faber
It was much easier, then,
when crazy ones began
a rain of cymbals and fire
from the hills surrounding
their world, from that place
from which knives of winter
would slice down their streets.
Denizens of darkness, they
could venture forth by day's
sun or flames licking night's
sky, so many tongues touching
edges of cold points of light.
Where once hours would
be spent in search, a scrap
of bread here, there
a shard of meat left
dangling from bone,
now there was feast
moving quickly before
the table was cleared by men
dinner tucked away in holes
hastily dug in vast fields
marked with wood, easily
to be found at some later time.
Then as rains of flame and cordite
washed over them, torrential
there was banquet, sating
stacked endlessly, engorged
a repast left to rot. Now
again they searched, so much
until it frittered away, just
their homes and glowing
as night winds encircled them. |
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