Il piombo è
sterile,
la terra fertile,
la paura indelebile,
la rabbia palpabile.

We’ll be wiser.
We can see deeper.
We can be louder.

Fireworks in the sky seem to be not enough to take the gunpowder out of the wrong hand.

Sadness simply becomes awareness.
Disdain will upraise in a transitive manner.
Something like a hopeful question.

Why the hell must democracy have its martyrs?

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