It was raining on that day.
The filthy rat was rambling through the nearby drain.
A shithole,
a shabby cell,
stained mattress.
No lunch, no women…
Fighting… fighting…a tired sailor fighting.
Suddenly there was a news…the poet has been chosen,
the poem has been given to the crowd.
Revelation of mockery, peeking through the transparent skirt…the dirt of a rejected man.
The time was there…the time to hold your own hands and legs and eyes and heart…
and howl…the resonance of thousands nights of suicides.
The smell of the alcohol felt beautiful,
the stink of old bruises were returning…
The poet was there… looking at the sky…the wet and weak sky…
The failures of the system would come out now and they will taste honey…they will taste warm blood…they will get high on their own graves.

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Photograph: Google.