It is too frightened to look at
itself.
But it shall come to know itself in
the intimacy
Of the candlelight
And the perfume of the flowers
scattered on the floor.
No kisses, no caresses;
Only the weight of tears,
Frustration and impotence.
It cannot be called our mother,
But our grave;
Mass grave for artists, and not for
murderers.
Our land, where blood is used to
water
The Seed of Tomorrow.
Where nothing, but who knows nothing,
Is once seen to smile;
Smiling next to the Grim Reaper, who walks
amidst
With a grin wide with impunity and
relief.
Where sighs, groans, and shrieks
Rip through the air but no one
notices.
Life goes on, another day comes by
And they tell me that this sorrow is
an ease.
“You’re alive!” Isn’t that right?
Where violent sorrow
Is a common emotion;
If three died there,
Then fear, anger and shame
Will be the end of us all.
Were people
Hear the funeral bells ring,
And no longer ask who died;
Students forging a future
That never comes,
And where good men die
Before the flowers in their caps
wilt,
For they die before they even fall
sick.
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