With every dream
of those strange colored icicles
and those unimaginable caves.
From the survivals and fallouts
from those painfully realistic
and the drowning of the entire
sub-structure of it, in the whole of rum,
to rage against the dying night.
We have flooded the brain,
indebting it of our memories.
it is a sky now, so full of fireworks
it seems like floating nebula of dust and light.
Don’t let it suffocate.
Don’t let a genocide kill what you imagine.
Write and let the light taste the paper.
like it should.
*Rage against the dying night taken from Dylan Thomas’s Poem of the same name*