So a Person is Murdered

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Have you,
seen the blood,
heard its language,
have you seen its house.
Did you find it,
across the road,
in a closed room of an office
or on a wall perhaps?
At times, I wonder,
what kind of hand
a killer have?
What kind of tongue
fibsters have?
When a precious thing
goes away,
when a lie
is to be told
when bread is begged
so a person is murdered

(RMA)

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Filed under English Poems

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