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The Victory Day Morning

 

 

It is morning

 

You were born after         after that Day of Victory, in your war           the war in which they won,              yours

I don’t know what you call them        who died for you            but they thought better of you – the unborn – than you do of them now.

 

I can hear them         they’re not dead at all – thoughts don’t die               they want to listen to you, talk to you

 

You call it “paying homage…”

That’s not what they wanted            want

 

 

Dying for their unborn children, grandchildren               for the continuation of the family       they left nothing for themselves and the whole soul turned into a ray – the most important part of a human,           to pierce for you a way through, there          to your Future       they’re dying for right now.

 

The soul knows more than you think      because it knows about the genus, hears it

 

She should have taught you that she knows the             at least to look at where it is now       your genus. . .    .

You too can hear what the Genus lives for,             what These failed to destroy.

 

 

The Victory Day Morning.               It’s already in the air,          you hear,      hear what in other days are hidden from you

 

I am Death and I opened a Passageway       – passageway to their thoughts

They want to hear their own who then were not born yet      for whom they gave their lives           they want to know what you have become            they want to be proud of you           they want to believe that you are the ones for whose lives they gave their own       .

 

 

 

The Passageway is open,       the Victory Parade is about to begin      I’ll hold it open until noon

It’s very painful to make it  – a Passageway through

I will endure for you                  those who want that the souls of those who gave their lives, for you to live, so that they can at least for a moment rise from the Abyss of pain and see through your eyes that they did not die in vain, that they are remembered,               loved           at least a little,                 someways

 

 

 

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