Poems by Claudia Serea

The prosecutor

My mouth lays mortar.
My words are bricks.

I build walls of speech
around others,

walls with eyes,
tall walls.

I hide people.
I disappear them.

They’ll never get out
the same.

Nobody will know
they ever existed,

only the wind
through empty streets.

The courtroom clerk

In the end,
all that remains
is paper,


in a file.

No one will know
whose fingers
those lives away,

only the hands
that signed
and stamped them.


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