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A child cries into the wind:
‘Now I wait; I cannot bear
longing that turns my blood
to molten lead. I am absent here;
I am nowhere.
‘Stranger voices from far away
spit sulphur threats from mouths
of nameless fire. Sleepless I watch
for hate to come, smear the burnt soul
of the broken land.’
A child cries into the wind:
‘In the comfortless lap of the world
I sing.’
-Euan Tait © 2022