Think of your walking death on the sidewalk
Ask about the color of your shrouds 
The form of your funeral
Who will walk in it
Who will say the prayers
All the hands beseeching the roof of the bus
But there you go
You wish to utter this weakened scream 
Sitting in your ethereal cafe Casablanca
The sad clouds of your coffee 
Thicken in the sky of a newspaper
Suspended in your shivering hands
It is raining blood

-Ikram Abdi, Casablanca

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