They awake each day with the dawn
The drummers
Five
Their blankets, the stars, torn away
They rise
Seeking to reach the streets before the first crowds
It is their life
They are the drummers
Pounding out brutal city rhythms
Beating an overturned trashcan
Or bucket
Raw emotion channeled through their hands
Or sticks, or pieces of rope
They are the drummers
And it is their life
Pounding out a living
Maybe making enough to not die
But never enough to live
Everyday they create these
Brutal city rhythms
Beating, not drums
But their own coffins
And the sticks
Are bones from their own arms
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