Black Milk Of Daybreak

Black Milk Of Daybreak
© Surazeus
2026 01 27

Once again we drink black milk of daybreak 
while digging graves for our teachers and nurses 
who tend festering wounds in doorless rooms 
where the blind man writes with tooth of the snake 
riddles on walls of museums and churches 
that bleed words of truth in eyes of the ground. 

Each morning we drink black milk of daybreak 
to make room for more graves in empty clouds 
where faceless ghosts of people with lost names 
hide stories of harsh suffering they endure 
deep in blinking hearts of red traffic lights 
that signal our duty to oppose hate. 

Each lunchtime we drink black milk of daybreak 
while flames of world war consume garden trees 
where Sulamith plays with serpent of truth 
who recites riddles from book of fake lies 
that prophesy fall of America 
and rise of Zarathia to rule Earth. 

Each evening we drink black milk of daybreak 
while Albert plays electric violin 
to raise soul of Odysseus from the dead 
who catches capital bullets of rage 
with psychic aperture of his blue eye 
since he lives in the house with countless graves. 

Each midnight we drink black milk of daybreak 
since Margarete with the long golden hair 
wanders in the house of the rising sun 
to transform nuclear missiles of despair 
into blackberry vines of innocence 
so she can bake pies from our wounded hearts. 

We decide to drink black milk of daybreak 
because the bridge of happiness we built 
collapses in swift River Styx of change 
through urgent pride of honest arrogance 
to assert principles of thought control 
hidden by polished mask of Jupiter. 

No one wants to drink black milk of daybreak 
during the century of global wars 
when angels in airplanes bomb paradise 
as spies infiltrate foreign governments 
till time assimilates nations of gangs 
in peaceful United Nations of Earth. 

I refuse to drink black milk of daybreak 
after digging graves for millions of souls 
who haunt me on long restless afternoons 
so I record their names and tragic lives 
in sacred chronicle of the blind crow 
while I float in house of eight billion doors.