2 poems by Roy Liran

1

Landslide

We managed our
days working too
hard for too little,
and the evenings
were laughter and

tears. We carried
our scars outwardly
proud, but hoped
to disinherit the
children from wars.

One night was full
of crystals, and we
spent it on the
tense sofa waiting
for change, but

in the morning all
the screens
had turned pale,
and black with the
promise of blood,

and we would have
liked to stay to join
the fight, but we
were no longer alone.

Guilt is an ancient,
sweat soaked
overcoat. Here, child,
wear it and be warm.

Not on time

Entering the station, though
twenty years too late.

The platforms are
deserted, and the tracks
overgrown with weeds.

Unread, markings in
the dust remind the waiting
benches of a vending
machine’s last struggle.

A book here will
take a while to read.

Looking at the broken glass
roof through rusted trusses and
vacant destinations, I notice
how the breathing continues
long after the heart is dead.

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