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A poem talking about a dead government who promised to give life to the dead.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown,

Like a wood carries the metal without smirking,
Quiet miseries, truce conflict, the ship is breaking down,
Towards the South, behind the North, nothingness is lurking.

The trip of a thousand miles has ended with a stride,
Naked we display our attire of humiliation in the market,
To dance to the rhythm of dummies alongside.
The land of our forefathers, the lunatic of our fore-patriarchate.

Like a fixed cottonwood in the eardrum of a deaf,
The conversing drum speaks hogwash to their auditory.
Blah, blah, blah. Our melodious lyrics keep missing its clef,
As the feudal marks the serfs of their territory.

under the sheets

The time of the sword and ax is nigh,
The epoch of self slavery is running its last laps.
Let the old cry for bread and the fish, the youths defy.
For the hut built with froth, to the dews, it will collapse.

Ten thousands of cowries won’t buy the silence of multitudes,
The tower of Babylon is deteriorating at the masses’ feet.
The soil of green shall furthermore soar in magnitudes;
The abode of the tyranny be built-in the street.

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