Cold Light, by Peter Horn
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Cold Light, by Peter Horn

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cold is the light,
even colder the stone
in this house of death
the hangmen of our past
empty golden beakers

they have even
privatised water now
and the wells have been emptied
everything that could save us
has been taken from us

the children scream
they eat green grass
and ascend the mountain of hunger
and pray to heaven above

under the starless sky
we are blind and deaf

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