Weekends, weekdays
the numbers or names the days bear
or the serialised convention the months endure
year after year
All the luxuries
of a lazy normalcy
Even the century or era
would cease to matter
When planes bearing flags foreign
hover over rubbled homes
and scattered cities
The ominous siren
wouldn't cease to wail
In not so far off a distance
as you'd desire
When a fruit falling off a tree
out of season
Or a bird fleeting across
a thatched roof, now gaping
makes one jump
out of sleep, light and borrowed
The luxury of calling names
behind the neighbour's back,
catching up over a picket fence
to crib about the government,
taking the dog for a walk,
or lying cloud-gazing on green lawns
not yet reddened
Not one of these luxuries
of a lazy normalcy
can be taken for granted
For they can be just a shell away,
a crater waiting to erupt
from the nightmare
of a tyrant's dream
or ambition misplaced
Privileged you are
to get to whinge
about things that matter to none
this way or that
Many have lost everything
for crimes much less.
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