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In twenty years, the Lottery has raised over $1.4 billion. It has been run successfully and efficiently.

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The Bottom Has Been Knocked Out

I've given to you all that I am.
And still you're talking,
To find a fault.

I've given to you all that I can.
And still you're threatening,
From me to walk.

And I don't know,
What it is I've done.
And...
I don't know,
What it is I should...
Overcome.

There is no more from me I can give.
'Cause...
The bottom has been knocked out.

And...
I don't know,
What it is I've done.
And...
I don't know,
What it is I should...
Overcome.

I've given to you all that I am.
And still you're talking,
To find a fault.

I've given to you all that I can.
And still you're threatening,
From me to walk.

And I don't know,
What it is I've done.
And...
I don't know,
What it is I should...
Overcome.

'Cause...
The bottom has been knocked out,
Of my heart.
The bottom has been knocked out.

And...
I don't know,
What it is I've done.
And...
I don't know,
What it is I should...
Overcome.

There is no more from me I can give,
'Cause...
The bottom has been knocked out.
No...
There is no more from me I can give,
'Cause...
The bottom has been knocked out,
Of my heart.
There is no more from me I can give.

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The Bar Has Been Raised Much Too High

There is a standard set,
In the best of an idealistic premise...
To keep as a measure,
That checks one's advancement.

But expectations lowered,
Will eventually affect...
Those once kept high standards.
Slipping to catch the absence of discipline.

And with a mediocrity achieved...
To come alter the notion of ambition,
A proclamation introduce will claim...
The bar has been raised much too high.

Especially for those...
Seeking their need for attention,
And remedial assistance.
With no guarantee for achievement.

'The bar...
It has been raised again,
And much too high!
It must be lowered.
It must be lowered.
Please follow intructions to lower,
Expectations.'

'The bar...
It has been raised again,
And much too high!
It must be lowered.
It must be lowered.
Please follow intructions to lower,
Expectations.'

This is declared from a robotic voice,
Programmed to monitor classroon activities.

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After The Poetry Has Been Lost

After the Poetry has been lost
And the feeling of what Poetry is forgotten,
Hungry lonely empty Ambition writes lines
And tries to present them as Poetry,
When they are stale flat unprofitable
The expression merely
Of the clichéd imitative self
In its struggling to live
While dying.

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The Purchase Has Been Declared Effective

When anything is bought,
It is owned and not sought...
To share.
Or thought to belong to anyone else,
But the one who purchases...
Whatever it is that is there,
To use productively or left to sit.

And the controlling of it,
Has nothing to do with one's intelligence.
When anything is bought as is,
To document to transfer an ownership...
It doesn't matter who sells out,
To later mouth about it.
The purchase has been lobbied and declared effective.

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After The Filth Has Been Filtered

After the filth has been filtered,
And drained from minds forced to open...
There will be more honest discussions,
Attempted and made...
Between those in shadows,
And those accustomed to giving shade.
After the filth has been filtered.

With more uninhibited wishes,
From those who escaped away from those days...
When people were afraid to remove those masks,
Some homemade...
That did not convey true portrayals.
But were worn instead,
To deny and hide themselves with choices to be led.

And after the filth has been filtered,
More of life for them begins.
More of life is felt and shared.
With the necessity of charades and masquerades,
For them to end.

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Since the Government Has Been Broken

My life,
Has never been a convenience.
It has been a strategic manuevering,
To avoid polarization.

There had been those who attempted,
To block my path with inventive obstacles.
Trying to convince my sense of self,
That my acceptance of who I am...
Was nothing more,
Than a self inflicted sham.

While others who believed I sought attention,
Did their best to ignore my intentions.
And used my skin color as some kind of bait.
To make me feel my fate,
Was in their hands to disintegrate.

Dysfunctions and my choice of interests,
Became for them a focus.
And today these criminal minded beings...
Stand on the edge of an abyss,
As if they are the choice of folks...
To brag about which destruction,
Everyone prefers the most!

My life,
Has never been a convenience.
It has been a strategic manuevering,
To avoid polarization.
Something the country we live in,
Seems not to be able to escape.
Since the government has been broken...
By self interest and debate.

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What Has Been Done Successfully

If all that he does,
Is just mimic my steps.
And whines pathetically,
In a manner to get attention...
With a bit of empathy.
He succeeds,
With this procedure.

What has been done successfully,
Is his ability to prove,
A need...
From an inexperienced heart.
And innovation with originality...
Has not begun to play a major part,
In his dependent personality.

He currently suffers from issues,
With a wish to impress.
And not yet ready to lift his head,
From a soft welcoming breast.
That patronizes his insecurities.
As he sucks his thumb!
While revelling in a protection,
He temporarily has won!

And my steps laid,
Required some bravery witnessed...
In the midst of everyone.
Without benefit,
Of applause or encouragement.
And this is what he believes,
Feeds success and not its quality.
Or the bleeding done,
He does not see!
Hidden from eyes to do privately.

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I Walked Last Night In A District I Lived In For Almost Twenty Years

I WALKED LAST NIGHT IN A DISTRICT I LIVED IN FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS

I walked last night in a district I lived in for almost twenty years
I came back after being away for a time
To visit an old and ailing friend
The streets were empty and lonely as they often were then-
I thought for the first time I understood how lonely the district itself is-
‘A lonely district’
I wondered how I managed to live there all those years
And how anyone still manages to live there-
I looked up at the sky and wrote in my mind a small poem of a kind I wrote many of in my years there
I remembered teachers and friends who had lived there
No longer of this district or any district on earth
I wondered how life goes and how from so many years so much life has been lived without having any place in my memory
I felt as empty inside as the district without
I did not have to wait long for the bus
And relieved inside it I put my heart to home
So many years had been lived there
I remembered taking my small children to the playground there
Now they thank G-d have children of their own
Oh the years go by and the life we have lived in them largely dies
Forever to be unknown again-
I put my heart and mind in a different direction
And began to do what I always do – not think of the district again
Life is this mystery and question we live through and never wholly possess even as we are experiencing it
How long before all will be gone for me
Including the district I live in now?

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Twenty Years

I burned the bridge. There's no going back.
Would never be ten or fifteen again.
Opening my eyes to a blood red sky
Designed with black and all shades of darkness
Inscribed in it was 'Welcome To Life'
I cried and cried, everyone smiled and grinned
I really don't wanna be here but ssshh
You can't say that, life is for living
The dead hath no friendship with the living
Holding the back of hope's hand
On the other hand holding tightly
The photograph of the days of my life.
I run for my dear...not so dear life
Here comes the seasons changing on me again
When it rains, it pours, I drown, and become rain
When it shines, it burns, I ignite, and become passion
There's been no rain, I prayed
Took an umbrella, with faith in my chest
I chilled under the sky for an answer
It didn't rain, so I went for a gin
Twenty years. Twenty failures. One cynic.
Pure Russian water wash through my bleeding soul.
Twenty years looking for something
Not sure what, the whole world is moving
I'm standing, chilling, and stilling
A confused fish, stuck in life, a tough shore
Death and nothingness, the peaceful ocean
How do you fill up an empty heart?
Twenty years with an empty side
The best way to give your life a meaning
Is to give someone's life a meaning
Twenty years, I've sounded an alarm
To the higher heavens, to the Only one
But how do you give what you don't have?
Twenty years. Twenty heartbreaks. Twenty failures. Twenty prayers.
Twenty kisses. Twenty goodbyes.
Twenty attempts. Still breathing.
Twenty caresses by Him who wooed me young
He who loves and chases me old
Yet His absence is chilling and silence, killing.
Twenty years. Of clueless motions.
And the crowds' mental insanity.
Twenty years. History has told her story.
Time is penning my story.
I repeat again; I wish I knew
At any point knew how life should be lived.
Twenty years. Prince Charming. Remained a frog, or perhaps had disdain for sleeping beauty.
Twenty years. The rain is pouring, my heart is needing
But the umbrella's missing.
Disney made me dream...weak...love
My prince charming in shining armour is...a...fairy...in a child's tale.
Gloom is norm. Loneliness is my bestie.
Twenty years. What do you want to be in Twenty years?
I wish you well.
Me? I'm just searching...for the sea.

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Amy Lowell

The Cross-Roads

A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed
with a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house,
and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows,
cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,
creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.
A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howling
through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing.
The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open
and the eyes glitter.


The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching.
Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;
tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart,
drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning,
lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles and earth
and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again
into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses.
Squeaking of wheels.

'Whoa! Ready, Jim?'

'All ready.'

Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin.

'Give us the stake, Jim. Now.'

Pound! Pound!

'He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground.'

An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him.
He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway,
and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet
in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.


Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body,
and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick
held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green.
Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley
at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young
green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise
scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing,
under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within
his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun?
The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan.
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,
tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves,
and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees.

The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking - rocking, and all the branches
are knocking - knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate,
the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage
is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing.
The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms.
The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well
in the deep, black ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground.


Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away;
it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the stake
is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly jewelled
with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises.
Down the road to Tilbury, silence - and the slow flapping of large leaves.
Down the road to Sutton, silence - and the darkness of heavy-foliaged trees.
Down the road to Wayfleet, silence - and the whirring scrape of insects
in the branches. Down the road to Edgarstown, silence - and stars like
stepping-stones in a pathway overhead. It is very quiet at the cross-roads,
and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly points
the way where nobody wishes to go.

A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide,
still leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes;
silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury way;
riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from
Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze
all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down.
Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves away
from the sign-post. An oath - spurs - a blurring of grey mist.
A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing
down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.

The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from flesh,
has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and clamping them down
in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and spine.
The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them still
in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine, for the stake
holds the fleshless bones in line.


Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself away;
it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. Only flaky
bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone is knit
to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but upright still,
and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.

Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the trees.
The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow ways,
saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust
blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do more;
it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind
comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet.
The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.
Wind again, wheels and feet louder. Wind again - again - again.
A drop of rain, flat into the dust. Drop! - Drop! Thick heavy raindrops,
and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their leaves.

Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road,
comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard
at Wayfleet. Feet and wheels - feet and wheels. And among them
one who is carried.

The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver
through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together
in a little puffing of dust.

Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession,
now well along the Wayfleet road.

He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like smoke,
his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the pouring rain,
he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down
the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers
among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under,
blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke.
There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,
and after it laughter - laughter - laughter, skirling up to the black sky.
Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap of thunder.
Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.

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The Smile Has Left Your Eyes

I saw you standing hand in hand
And now you come to me the solitary man
And I know what it is that made us live
Such ordinary lives
The where to go the who to see
No one could sympathize
The smile has left your eyes
The smile has left your eyes
And Ive become a rolling stone
I dont know where to go or what to call my own
But I can see that black horizon glooming
Ever close to view
Its over now its not my fault
See how this feels for you
The smile has left your eyes
The smile has left your eyes
But I never thought Id see you
Standing there with him
So dont come crawling back to me
Now its too late you realized
Now theres no one can sympathize
Now that the smile has left your eyes
Now its too late you realized
Now theres no one can sympathize
Now its too late you realized
Now that the smile has left your eyes

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Epilogue - To the Tragedy of Cleone

Well, Ladies-so much for the tragic style-
And now the custom is to make you smile.
To make us smile!-methinks I hear you say-
Why, who can help it, at so strange a play?
The captain gone three years!-and then to blame
The faultless conduct of his virtuous dame!
My stars! what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provoked, to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house!-this night, forsooth, depart!
A modern wife had said-'With all my heart-
But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone;
Order your coach-conduct me safe to Town-
Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my maid-
And pray take care my pin-money be paid.'
Such is the language of each modish fair;
Yet memoirs, not of modern growth, declare
The time has been, when modesty and truth
Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth;
When women hid their necks, and veil'd their faces,
Nor romp'd, nor raked, nor stared at public places,
Nor took the airs of Amazons for graces:
Then plain domestic virtues were the mode,
And wives ne'er dreamt of happiness abroad;
They loved their children, learnt no flaunting airs,
But with the joys of wedlock mix'd the cares.
Those times are past-yet sure they merit praise,
For marriage triumph'd in those golden days;
By chaste decorum they affection gain'd;
By faith and fondness, what they won, maintain'd.
'Tis yours, Ye Fair! to bring those days again,
And form anew the hearts of thoughtless men;
Make beauty's lustre amiable as bright,
And give the soul, as well as sense, delight;
Reclaim from folly a fantastic age,
That scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage.
Let truth and tenderness your breasts adorn,
The marriage chain with transport shall be worn;
Each blooming virgin, raised into a bride,
Shall double all their joys, their cares divide;
Alleviate grief, compose the jars of strife,
And pour the balm that sweetens human life.

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More Amazing Than The Crucifixion

More amazing that the crucifixion
was, of course, the holocaust.
That’s why some believe it’s fiction,
view Jew-haters have endorsed.
Sad fact is that truly it
occurred––six million crucified,
and not just one. Though Holy Writ
does not include them by his side,
Chagall has done this. From the cross
the Christ looks sadly down, an SS-man
observing bloody feet, a boss
who’ll claim he was a minor yes-man
to that atrocity we see
on Golgotha has taken place;
he never will confess that he
deserves great blame. The Jewish race
survived this SS-man’s attack
whose evil has been called banal,
confusing merely white and black!
confusion not one Marc Chagall
made showing cruelty to Christ
who’s cringing on the cross. Some think
they know why he was sacrificed.
I from such explanations shrink,
confronted by the genocide
of all the millions who were killed
with gas used like a pesticide
by people more than Romans skilled
in culture and humanity,
some God-believers, even, whose
world-views saw no profanity
in crucifixion of the Jews.

Inspired by an article by Randy Kennedy in the NYT on January 2,2010, describing the purchase of a Chagall gouache depicting the crucifixion by the London:

The London Jewish Museum of Art is a scrappy young institution, created in 2001 and camped in rented space in St. John’s Wood, off the beaten track of London’s art world. But over the last nine years the museum has been diligently trying to forge a reputation for itself, adding more than 100 works to an already substantial collection that grew out of that of the Ben Uri Gallery, a Jewish artists’ society founded in London in 1915. So when David Glasser, one of the museum’s chairmen, was perusing a Paris auction catalog a few months ago, he found it hard to believe what he saw: a previously unknown 1945 gouache by Marc Chagall. It was one of a small group of images Chagall made in direct response to the Holocaust, after he and his wife had fled France in 1941, after the German occupation and after he had begun to learn the details of the Nazi atrocities. The gouache on heavy paper, which Chagall signed and titled himself lightly with a pencil in Russian — “Apocalypse in Lilac, Capriccio” — employs one of his familiar motifs, an image of a crucified Jesus, which he used as a metaphor for persecuted Jewry. But this crucifixion, painted in New York, where Chagall settled for several years, is one of the most brutal and disturbing ever created by an artist primarily known for his brightly colored folkloric visions. “Apocalypse” shows a naked Christ screaming at a Nazi storm trooper below the cross, who has a backwards swastika on his arm, a Hitler-like mustache and a serpentine tail. Another small figure can be seen crucified and a second being hanged, and a man appears to be poised to stab a child. A damaged, upside-down clock falls from the sky. The darkness and directness of the work may have been a response not only to the war but also to the death of Chagall’s wife, Bella, a year earlier from a viral infection that might have been treated if not for wartime medicine shortages….
And beginning on Thursday, it will go on public display for the first time, at the Osborne Samuel gallery in Mayfair, before moving into the museum’s permanent collection at the end of the month. In going on view, it will become another of the notable publicly exhibited examples of Chagall’s wartime imagery, like the “Yellow Crucifixion” from 1943, at the Georges Pompidou Center, and the “White Crucifixion” from 1938 at the Art Institute of Chicago. “Although in many of his works Chagall had reacted to events in Germany, he usually did not depict them but used symbols — such as the crucifixion, a Jew holding a Torah, a mother protecting her child or a falling angel — to suggest what was happening there, ” writes Ziva Amishai-Maisels, a Chagall scholar and professor emeritus at Hebrew University of Jerusalem, in a catalog to accompany the exhibition of the painting. “Although he still used some of these symbols in ‘Apocalypse, ’ he combined them with the reality of the Holocaust in a manner that was very rare in his work. This and the way he depicted the conflict between the Nazi and the naked Christ make this a unique work.” Ms. Baron, of the Art Fund, agreed. “I think it is really a tremendous coup, ” she said, “to get it for this collection and for the country.”


1/2/10

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Over the last few years, the world has become a smaller and more integrated place with technology that is leveling the playing field like never before.

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The Graft has Got Independence

The graft has got much independence
and the greased hands demand reverence.
Put them in jails for long
to pass time with like throng.
To frame laws 'gainst it, who has penitence? .

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The Night Has A Thousand Eyes

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one:
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

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The World Has Passed Me By

THE WORLD HAS PASSED ME BY

The world has passed me by-
Its rules have changed-
I am playing an old game
No one plays anymore -
I cannot win
Because there are no winners of this kind anymore -
The world has passed me by
And it is as if I have already died.

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The Inkpot is Empty

The inkpot is empty the milkman a dream
No need to wind the gramophone
Innovation has wiped clean,
The march of Orwell’s PC crumbles another zone
Everyone is fixed to the face of their phone
Dance bands just had to stop,
Everyone’s fingers are dancing over
Qwerty u-i-op.
The net has been cast
Far and wide across earth’s dish
Mesmerising all of the caught human fish,
No hook or by crook
No man with such power,
Performs its duty that makes you look.
An electronic giant
Who turned the first sod
Its master just has to be,
The power of almighty God.

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The Night Has A Thousand Eyes

They say that youre a run around lover
Tho you say it isnt so
But if you put me down for another
Ill know, believe me
Ill know
cause the night has a thousand eyes
And a thousand eyes cant help but see
If you arent true to me
So remember when you tell those
Little white lies that the night
Has a thousand eyes
One of these days youre gonna be sorry
cause your game Im gonna play
And youll find out without really trying
Each time that my kisses stray
That the night has a thousand eyes
And a thousand eyes will see me through
And no matter what I do
I could never disguise
All those little white lies
cause the night has a thousand eyes
So remember when you tell those
Little white lies that the night
Has a thousand eyes

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The city has a deadly wound

The city has a deadly wound
and on the street without a place to go,
sits an old man and his old wife
and their small white dog.

I see a blonde girl watching cars,
to buy a piece of bread
and her face tells that she has problems
and I wonder how she washes
the dirt of the road from herself?

a Red haired guy sleeps in boxes on the sidewalk
and at a traffic light there’s children that sniffs glue.
At another traffic light
there’s a couple with a baby,
that stands in the hot sun
and is dependant on motorists for their fate.

Just before a traffic circle there’s a man
with short pants,
where day after day
he sells koeksisters.

a Man with dark glasses and a hat
strokes his guitar
chord after chord and sings sad songs
and I see that his hat is empty
where he is in a small alley
while minibus taxis hoot the whole time.

Taxes are getting higher
and everybody has to bare the brunt of it,
but the poor are on the street with their pain
and wait for the misery to pass
like flowers trying to blossom in a desert
and they are surprised and scarred by life
and wait in vain for a place in the sun.

[Koeksisters=> a Baked delicacy with syrup in it.]

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