In the margins of returning light,
city backstreets in hard rain,
people at every junction.
Personal memories, none.
Lost hope burned in the rain.
The evening stars, a pattern of
sorrow.

Nothing good will come of this.

Once by the banks of the River Fen, nothing
fell out of place. You told me that you did not like
AC/DC, but we agreed it was hard in this city for
two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever,
a gentle breeze played with falling leaves,
creating landscapes of spilled remnants.
But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings, and counterfeit trees,
and wondered about sound and silence.
And if human memories always find empty spaces,
in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.

Now, a portrait of a moment, singular and more
precious, a breeze to ease the pain of stolen moments with you.
To drift in-between will never be enough,
but memories left to grow old.

The Treasury underfunds the National Health Service,
and you report that Taylor Swift, embodies
the values of Trump, while chemotherapy
drips over the ****** floor.

Norwegian police uncover more than
150 rapes and ****** assaults in Lapland,
and you tell us about another royal wedding,
another fade to white by blissful deceit.

What was once true, now no longer rebellion,
for those that struggle against the indifference of lies,
and a world of comforting illusion, that transgress the
victims soul.

Once truth was there to learn. now consent is black and white,
gender and experienced forced - a spectrum of gradual extinction,
no longer seeing things as they are - just as we are.

Seated musings of dim thoughts creeping day by day,
as Harvard professors, whose fierce words
are now confined to late night masquerades,
give you nothing to entice your mind.

Now in these solitary years, consent is left to perish,
a universe of want, as the Pope watches lifeless children
float by and the beautiful people smile.

So they have found you guilty,
Pinochet’s lover of darkness,
for ending my life tonight.
A football stadium, bodies piled up,
no football today, a perverted game.
Pedro Pablo Barrientos Nunez
how did you learn to terrorize,
to think in ways most men don't think,
to live with walls draped with fingernails?

Now you live in the land of the free,
with 10,000 tortured ghosts,
from El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras
and all the rest of the disappeared lands,
that refused to listen to Reagan and Thatcher’s
heritage as patriots.

But we are unafraid to speak up,
or sing out for equality, or write
about the dens of sorrow your kind create.
You took the butchers knife and listened
to the screams, in spite of love in Santiago.
But now the silent dead will have their day,
and tell the world of those 10,000 lost kisses,
as we begin the long march to the sea.

When the insects sleep
the wounds heal.
Silent knife, I hate you
for what you try to subjugate,
the women of all lands.
Persuasions, to no avails
,
my body a punching bag.
Beautiful diamonds,
no longer carry your traditions.
I am leaving now,
this cant be living.

No longer receiving,
your pains and sorrows.
The blows from you,
will hurt no more.

Will you remember this conversation?
How words and music bridged our minds.
For what I have lost, so much was gained
in those moments of starting stories.
Once I heard and answered all the questions,
and spoke the language of plum blossom flowers.
Bearing apricot sweet dreams and craving spring,
we pressed each petal between the pages,
a singular beauty captured in a moment.
Now an old soul, who has paid time,
I share conversations with the night time creatures,
who have too much silence between the words,
and refuse to let you see all that has gone.
But out of pity and remorse,
they are given light by the moon and the stars.
I can see the night come down around them
and wait for each soul alone, it is enough to frighten me.
Now I pay more attention to sunlight bright
on the Fen river, than describing a sun that shines after death
and a world in silent pact unwilling to scatter it’s immortal seeds.
And as each petal vanishes, the day becomes darker.