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Alon alone not able to standnor breathesuffocating by inchesin the fetid air in the before timeyou breathed musicjazz bloomedfrom your fingers here in the underworldnothing growsexcept despair tapping imaginary ivorieson your sunken chestwhat music can they
The morning of October 7th began like any other Saturday for me—coffee, news updates, planning my day. Then my phone lit up with notifications. Friends in Israel sending messages to our group chat: “We’re under attack.”
Where does it goThis Search forAn ending,How Long Does It Last? In White hot, burning coalsdraped in Sin?With Coils of mercuryBurn Baby, Burn In Lying in filthLeaving, abandoning hope? Our men of valourOf Harlech, Of HethIs