In the beautiful plagued city where I lived,
You would eat dry snacks at crematorium
And enjoy munching it over wood crackle.

You wouldn’t munch slowly on mandibles,
As mandibles burn like whispers of wood
While still not dead ones are fast moving.

Back to drinking promises on some dying,
In the ugly non plagued city where I lived
You actually celebrated death by drinking.

Death hardly whispers but beats the drum
And wet throats are moving up and down
Like mandibles on whisper poems to child.


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