We little fish swim in turbulent waters
Our black bodies pulverised and hammered
By brown and turquoise fists
We are eager to make history
Even as it passes us by
But the circumstances are not of our choosing
The armed prophets have unleashed their ideological storms
The schizophrenic madmen in authority
Pluck their voices out of the ether
Rivers of dogma course the channels
A litter of corpses navigates the rapids
Freshly felled timber speeding downstream
Rings countless and uncountable
Antenna
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