There's the world by Mercy created
That thunders through the rain
To turn the houses into little dots of existence
That eat their own pictures within a space
The dropp is a vague silence
The space of a place all soaking wet
Washed in the rhythm
Within the word of wounds
Each whisper in Mercy remembers
Its soul's dwelling in blood
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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