The nooses are still around our necks.

We are still shackled and bound by chains.

Our backs are still bare.

And the smell of rotting flesh still lingers in the humid, midnight air.

We are still born as gods and goddesses.

Yet the demons of our past still haunt us.

Our bodies are still weathered and hardened by the harsh elements of our predicaments.

Still used on this hemisphere and that.

Generation after generation still abused and scorned.

Still branded and shepherded to slaughter houses like livestock.


◄ The title of a decent poem

曲折 ►


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