Mohamed Latiff Mohamed’s poems are not written to be pretty: there is blood, pus, rape, slime, and death. How else can they be, if they are songs for the destitute, hums of the hungry, and tears of the wretched who have lost everything? And who else are they for, but the New Malays, who are cursed to inherit what has been lost. These are the heroes whose stories have faded, who may yet rise again under tomorrow’s moon.