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To crush itWith an aimless wrathInside its arid heartUnknowing that windLike DeathBlows alongBoundless swathsYet long for rainIts bosoms bareTo quenchThe broken veinsOf rivers wildThat nurtured dreamsHungry raptors slitherBeneath an auburn skyMourning for banquets gonePast they flyWhile Helios feastsOn the agonyOf a wastelandThat hasNor fearNor shameFor its nudity
By H. Marcos C. Mordeno (aka Red Moon)Christmas Day 2007