If I can’t be a poet I’ll be a poem instead


After a wait, the locked ward door opens,

I sit in the empty waiting room,

an orange with no reason, sits in the middle of a table,

black, blue, orange, yellow plastic chairs,

stare at one another in the electric glare,

the stopped wall clock doesn’t move.



Running out of tears


Running out of tears

running out of fears

our hearts and souls are here


On the tree lined streets of Bucha

fallen bodies lie where they died

knocked over, mangled, distorted, shredded,

alongside carcasses of rockets

spent empty useless stupid lies

that call this war “special military operation”

The black crows gather and cower

but the birds still sing of freedom

in Bucha, Kharkiv and Marsupiol

the birds still sing of freedom

are you listening from your unmarked grave Federico?

The “black crows” gather and cower.