Who are you? Why don’t you speak?
Didn’t you heard the whistle of bombs,
The staccato of bullets,
The cry of a mother whose child
Lies buried in smoking rubble.
Are you blind? Can’t you see the
Red stains in the dust of the road,
The ribbon of earth that must be owned,
Controlled, subjected, pacified.
Can’t you feel it shudder?
You say we are the lucky ones.
Where others die without warning,
We expire peacefully, the breath
Leaving us in frugal gasps,
When we are old and wise.
Where are you going? Do you know?
The road is smooth and wide,
The sky above is deep and placid,
But who are those people trudging
Along like domestic animals
Herded to an unremitting fate?
Are you one of them? Do you taste
The hollowness in the air,
The flutter of the leaves that
Drop, one by one, to the astringent,
Ravaged ground.
© Dennis Hathaway
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