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Wael Almahdi

Resentment

When the dream dies
you’re soaked with resentment
at every table.


A new kid
in an empty playground
at high noon.
No companion, no quarter
the crickets gloat.


Death has terrible manners
it never knocks.


A forever sunset.
The waves come on too strong, the wind a bit too forward.
We abandon the shell search.

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