in concrete prison
of walls and windows
ceiling fans oscillating
mocking
condescending
buried in our graves
of notes and papers
where we shall all die
this red ink flow
like blood of murders
into our graves
the innocent suffer
forever
and the wardens sing
they say we the young
no worries
no stress
the wardens sing
they do not know
of the grave
and the blood of ink
of the prison
of the terror
of the annual slaughter
the old ones
the lying wardens
oh they sing
the song of judgement
the song of doom
the song of pity
we dance to the song
as they shoot our feet
cross our lines
all the way down
to the cold hard ground
to the grave
that is our notes and papers
and the lying wardens sing
YAARH,
Maximum ME
/darling my struggle is made merry by your love.
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