4th

We sing songs into our cold hands
Around a bucket full of flames.
History cools against itself, as
Flares break the skies like an
SOS to our collective memory.
We whisper this land is no land,
Just echoes of taxless frontiers
Where we weep and build and crumble.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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