In cold, dim cells

Under the ground

Secretly we read in hollow voices

Poems written by dear ones who have departed.

Then for the second, third and the thousandth time

We revise some of Our Poems

Hidden in the caverns of memory.

We fix them up, dream that one day

We may uncover them to sunlight.

We yawn, wake up,

Put them back into old cases of the ancestors,

Lock them up, and


We go out to the street,

Putting on

The masks of servility,

Performing the roles of the fools of old,

Afraid that They might discover

We are poets!

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