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Green Trilogy

1er juillet 2009

Resurrection : Angel of Freedom
Bloodstains : Nedas
Forehead beaten in : Shooting Stars

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Resurrection : Angel of Freedom

There is no death in a death that shadows us

or her eye as it puddles the blood that denies her lungs

the thrills of future breathing


the place is the blood-splash on the street or streaking down her face

her teacher beholding the big why in her wry open eyes

the doctor a metre away who rushed to stop the gush


Anyone stricken by love calls her name

So her killers and all the snipers

shall shrink away


Any girl who bares her chest to defy

two ravens in charge of the nation,

will win the day


I love love though love recedes

I love the white lily

though it withers in my hand

and grows in my song


Wait for me

Oh freedom song


* * *


Bloodstains : Nedas

Would that I have told you my sister
how that euphoric spillage of feet marching 
fist face over the pavements and streets 
and howling squares daubed in green
would only end in tears of blood 
alone on the rooftops crying out 
for the grace of god to save us 
from our foes and the woes of standing by
catching tirades of night raids on the neighbours' house.

Save your tears for the coming flood.

In spain eighty percent are marias, 
in tomorrows iran there shall be as many Nedas. 

Save your tears for the coming flood 
washing green rivulets in rivers of blood.

This is it, the tricolor of your mother's grief
green for the movement, red for the eyes
white for the hope


* * *


Forehead beaten in : Shooting Stars

From the East it encroaches on the stars,

the big dipper, the pole star suffer

oblivion for another twenty ... It's 3.30 am


Sunday's light encroaching on the clouds

now blanketing the stars we were watching

on the deck last night, waiting for a shooting star's

'your wish come true' moment.


A week in politics come to a conked head.


We back down, go inside, forgetting the milky way.


Last night a superstar dies like a supernova at midnight

BBC foreshadowing the shooting starless revolution

disappearing up in head hanging balloons of green



The window to the street light is not shattered

the wi-fi globe is revolving through the streets

hushed in the rush of wheels, clicking the keypads


Too high, too low, somewhere in between

the crisis is over spilt milk on the kitchen

floor may be mixed in blood or no, just imagined.


Was it to do with a shooting star ? or even a super star ?

that this iron grip on the rest of us has engaged the best of us,

but a star is missing and will be ?


Tonight a shooting star missed its promise

police takes me instead that in a starless night

like the thinker of the breeze ran in the back streets

lost in his tracks.

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