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//Poetry – a silent war, a peaceful rebellion suppressed by the thoughts, not written nor spoken out aloud. Like killed soldiers, many poets were unknown, buried in the soldier's grave, whose lives had never stayed in bloom. They are not allowed, to dream of their once grateful days, like blooming flowers were beheaded, before they’ve seen the sunshine play. Command and rule, but please don't guess, how lonely thoughts, will be suppressed. While poetry lifts up illusion, truth will cause confusion, raping just the deafened souls, that never hear the heartbell's toll. Tied onto the concrete wall, just pain changes your concrete thought, and never will they have success, while gods just gamble, playing chess. Soldiers can not scream in shell-shock nights, images of crippled friends dying there in vain beside his face and he cannot talk and merely breathe.
Whatever just the poet writes, it will be superfluous, he never reaches the perfect state, he can hardly take a breath. And in his sleepless sleep, he will dream, of things that are so beautiful, it bursts his heart, it melts his chest. Awoken he will start the writing, but the pictures start to vanish, in the haze of our crippled brain, where, in the end, absurdities remain.// F.H. December 2010