THE DYING ROOMS
Great cries from beyond
in this secret hell.
As their wombs carry
so shall the evil stench of the leadership
reap.
You are wrong they say
because you give us the unrequired sex.
the female has no place in our time.
Tiananmen resounds to the glory
of the obedient one.
This is our order, policy,
our requirement they
say.
Meanwhile China dies in many secret places.
Drab necrotic hell is here
it would seem.
Cries of the new-born left
to fester immobile.
Scabs so crustaceous grow well
beneath blankets that
move, cover
and secrete the troubled soul.
Each discovery is the same as the last
female baby unclothed to reveal
her fate from nature.
Lifeless, so black these wretched
beings headbutted by fate as
they go deeper to the mental floor.
The 'carer' parcels about a thing,
no connections with a soul, a being
scrubbed clean by regime hands.
they
are as dead.
Wet floors, wet rags, wet hearts
wet souls. These are the Dying Rooms.
They condone, although the leadership denies
pain, that all hell is here but
still falls the day.
Untouched by life
they present as one pity.
No fears or anger can
now give hope.
Silhouetted by
this shadow of a
valley of death, so secret are the Dying Rooms.
