I try to write something happy
nothing happy seems to come
even walking with the rebels
I have given up my guns
On the streets of revolution
I see plaques of lives now thrown
to the fleshpots of our liberty
a part of me is torn.
The year of the poem is finished, now it is the year for the protocol! Read about the misadventures of a plant scientist trying to make sense of photorespiration one mutant at a time.
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