The Testament of the Unjustified

By Zlata Chornata

the world is ceramic. 

it breaks into pieces of lies. 

I'm showing you landscapes of burn 

on my long, crooked spine.

my tongue's made from glass, 

my face sculpted with mud. 

they crack the mirrors of wisdom – 

I choke on the rivers of blood. 

I contain

multitudes. 

Whitman was right. 

I'm pulling my veins to the sun, 

the tissue of illness and farce, 

the lungs full of ash, 

the heart filled with wires. 

with only the matches and hay, 

I'm burning Versailles. 

corruption falls down like a card house, 

the government folds like a banknote. 

the ties and a handshake, the smiles, the laughs;

 the world is too bitter to hold out the act. 

they swallow the pride, 

I'm swallowing dearth: 

the darkness, 

the hunger,

the thirst of the dead. 

the oceans are full 

of garbage and oil; 

the soil is mined, 

the sky filled with rockets. 

my childhood shattered by enemy drones, 

the nation of promise now followed by "Lord". 

their peace declaration is taking my land;

corrupt occupation breaks down my hands. 

the sorrow empire had come to an end. 

the world is ceramic. 

it's easy to bend.