give me back my rags
the holes, the cold which whistles past my ears.
I am free.
I'll give you back my new Audi,
the cashmere sweater and expensive gloves,
the extravagant parties and friends who
are not, who disappeared
when I so desperately needed them.
I'll find old friends on the road
dressed in rags and carrying their possessions
in a small bag
our faces are old
our hands are rough and broken
we may die in the street with nothing,
rags that we freely chose.
a poem from a prompt "give me back my rags" by Vasko Popa
I don't necessarily believe that poverty is freedom, but I do think that our materialistic culture breeds loneliness and despair.
Trump’s Communications Orbit
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