Genocide
They killed a poem.
They killed a poem with tea-stained pages.
They killed a poem still bleeding when touched.
They killed a poem unfinished.
They killed one that's yet to be thought.
They killed a poem inside of a poem.
A poem knee-deep in its mother soil.
A poem still learning to live.
A poem trembling at the edge of the mouth.
A poem asleep inside the ink.
A poem silenced before its first breath.
They killed a poem inside of a poem.
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Tathev Simonyan