We point
carefully
at the other man.
The neighbour.
The stranger.
The faceless crowd.
The house is called Earth.
Invisible hands
have coloured the walls tonight
red in the lamplight.
Someone is singing
in the square:
Drums.
Sirens.
Boots in procession
Beat in the dark,
Nightmare.
A thin cry travels
under the music—
a child somewhere
without a voice.
They have written a word
on the wall
broken by noise.
Liberty.
The paint has not yet dried.
Morning enters quietly
through shattered glass.
And the wind asks
no one in particular—
What was the point.
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