Writers of the movement gather arms
and write with pens staining dark
the troubles of unwilling harms
in language heavy, true and stark.
The weight of the world persistent such
as the time which trickles though the days
and the soul that goes to silence much
to flee from fated ways.
Bitter me to false recourse
and leave the salt to cure these wounds
for my raspy throat is sore and hoarse
to make pure screams to tombs.
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