Acrid Scent
E
Emmanuel George Cefai
0
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The land was
Shouting
The waters screaming
There was an acrid
Scent
The nightingale heard it
And after one hour
Started her singing
The oak was wiser
Waited more
To taste next phases of
The weather.
For when the land
Be shouting
Waters be screaming
And
In the tintinabulum
Of time and ageing
Breathing be melted
In the acrid fumes
Of acids boiling.
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