BLOODY LIPS

The bloody wound
Of the gladiator
Gurgles out life's end.

The cries of acclimations from the stands
Fill the sky with raging tigers.

Waving their arms about to incite the masses
The aging notables add an air of dignity to the arena.
Making their separate entries
they
K
N
E
E
L
over the still-warm corpses
Of the young. Their withered lips they pose
Upon the fresh flowing wounds
And, to prolong their lives – so they believe,
Suck, ravenously suck out the blood, blood, blood.

Fresh blood from the sun
Flowing into filthy veins
As into sewage pipes,

And thus the Heart of the Nation is abandoned.

Author: Visar Zhiti