Angles of bones from deep within pits
Question this air full of burnt rubber smoke
And chart the new numbers of corpses unclaimed
That spittle my districts in red.
Quietly I walk, but look back with fear
And wonder whose turn is this day to be shot.
Hamlets that rang with melodies of birds
Or fields that had ripened with golden-green songs
Are pale now with mouths full of ash.
The veritable dance of democratic farce
Is cymballed with howlings of orphans in vain
In a land that has lost all its shame.
Oft have I thought of marching on streets
With candles or banners unfurled.
But fearful of causes too distant from mine,
Have left all my anguish unsaid.
So how should I find a new roof that'll house
All of our voices in sync?
Rattled still I type among gunshots at noon
And puzzle over souffles and mousse.