Art: Ira Welankar
you can wash away sin with the rain.
red is the mud at his grave.
and now i ask you if it was easier,
to let the river of blood drown the street
where your own home sits and inside it
your mother sleeps.
than to hear him say those words,
barely above a whisper – dandelions in the wind.
you can wash away sin with the rain.
but blood stains.
and now the first storm has buried it in the ground.
next spring there will be flowers – dandelions.
born of blood and raised by his last breath.
the grave he never had.
here lies truth. here lies freedom.
his epitaph is a battle cry.
and for as long as his words live in fading ink and acid rain,
so does he–
dandelions in red mud.
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