Broken flowers and Days of violence

Idris doesn't need a last name

Broken flowers and Days of violence

Where do I place my dead?

My skin is full of holes,

clumsy, dark holes filled with dead bodies.

Where do I put these faces,

these hands? My memory is already

brimming with death.

It’s not enough to shout, march

through the streets carrying your portraits

for those empty of light to see.

Hitmen gag those who suffer

with chains, with more than chains,

with hate, a thick, putrid hate.

They masturbate on our chests, panting,

moaning while they polish our heads.

Decapitated days are howling

while hitmen leave the city

roaring with laughter.