Spent by the reading of news
alas never really new, returning
countries allegedly posing threats
not as much to humans as, to concepts
overused words exalting freedom
and democracy, a reason justifying
aircrafts dropping bombs in regions
most can’t even pin on a globe.
Tired of the rejoicing declarations
of those happily in charge, as if it were
a science fiction novel dialogue
non regarding us the least for no one,
can condemn imagination irrespective
of how horrendously terrifying it may be.
Exhausted of counting corpses differentiating
between soldiers and civilians, men, women
and children, as if it made an actual difference
as if there were diverse degrees of gravity
as if a life was more important than another.
Enervated by listening to media cover
truths behind intentions true purposes
of just a few, a handful of deciders
self-erected judges self-proclaimed gods
gaining profit out of people
selling their miserable despair.
What do they care, Afghanistan, Iraq,
Syria, Lebanon or Libya, Rwanda, Yemen,
Iran or North Korea, they are all
quite the same if it weren’t for details,
resources, oil, gas, cassiterite and water
or merely strategic geopolitical positions,
voluntarily neglecting history and culture
religions and beliefs, let alone their needs.
Enfeebled by the saddening realisation
that whether lost or won, war always benefits
someone, those fabricating glorious weapons
selling munitions with numbers engraved,
I’d like to ask them to incise their names,
or those of all the expendable humans
contributing to Wall Street favourable trends,
each time a profitable investment indeed.
Prostrated I’ll close my eyes, in search
of peace hoping cadavers
won’t come to visit me in my nightmares,
tonight.
[Featured painting: Kids On Gun Hill by Banksy]