*Steven Price - Gravity **Louis Hector Leroux - Herculaneum (1881) I will bring you quenched words Words that destroy a withered world Words, some of feather, some of iron Words, some of iron, will keep you upright Because I know they will keep you upright Poetry that shines where the handle, the hammer and the inkwell are held. I had a hard winter, oily like yours I got hungry, I got lice, some parts of me ached It didn't tear out, but the rough rules of fascism Because my heart would crack and split from love. Every morning it would be pulled from my dark forehead, fighting I didn't even feel pain in front of hollow hearts My brain was the brain of a revolutionary every morning My feet are dull, but are you in good health? The scabs of the wounds are easily removed By plunging into the fertile world of the people Who don't understand their voices beating against the sun The owners of four walls, wire fences, and famous prohibitions While we can't even watch the festival inside us While terror can't approach us While life is waiting for us, burning brightly, is it in your hands to collapse? Was it for nothing that the banks were attacked with swaddling rags for oil pipes? Did the bullet bruise the worker's side? Let the roar of the dungeons hit our ears. Living is not a touching song for us. This heart is used to living at peace with the sky once And stubbornly surrounded by the rattle of the land. It's a shame that the birds are far away, the city with its streets that is ours. But only the curse of not being able to scythe with ambition puts a person in it. Kisses, suddenly rolling into bed. Even if it is remembered with love. It is the fallout of a bubbling, bubbling life, my brother. What all revolutionaries suffer. We know that the weariness of the world is constantly speared. A robust death in the mountains is our friends'. We are a dim magnificence for now, no matter how magnificent we are. But the one who spurts as we are pruned is us. We are dying, so it must be lived...