The farmer.
The farmer with long steel hands and round metallic face and charcoaled heart had nothing,
but he could have everything.
World has never deprived people in terms of blossomed lands…
He had one of those…but without any sense of creativity…any sense of life among the Idiocracy of dead bodies.
The vines formed a roof…the bushes formed a wall and inside that he speaks in the language of waters, in the words of unsaid melancholia.
From brown worm to translucent butterflies,
from crippled chicks to furious predator…
The metamorphosis, the mutation, the loneliness of a changed beast,
all of these have happened to him in backwards.
His vodka is straight and with the murmuring of this smoggy forest,
he gets back to his days of materialistic celebrations.
He has a pigeon which roams around the concretes of a mutilated city…
he knows for sure that one day he is going to take the life out of it…one day he is going to get all the urban carbons from it’s costly blood.
One day he is going to get the salvation by murdering an earthly life of jailed conscience.

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Photograph: Adam Bosenko.