Silent Slaves

I did not understand fire,
Until I saw desire in her eyes.
Nor did I know the smell of ashes,
Until I was tucked in the urn.

Between the desire and the ashes,
A country self-immolated in hatred.
Its men drunk plenty on sentimental hurt,
Silent slaves, craving for praise undeserved.


Featured image: The hoarders and wasters by Gustave Dore, via Wikiart.org

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