Poem — Misfortunate Country

To be afraid of the ghosts of a countries past
Is to see a people lost in the labyrinth of history
A frightened loss of innocence Is worse
for the life of any political fanatic, whose words
Would tear flesh from thought, actions from account

It is worse that what lies above a countries skies
When its ground is stinking of the fire of lost genocide
Or worse again, if the burnt ground of political sanctity
Could turn the flames of the peoples anger, the workers
of the land, its people and the machines that control it.

The turning and rumbling of the wheels of progress
Digging up this lands lost treasures, of cretaceous ground
Keep the losing flame of anger quenched and fed
led to the wreckage of house and home, its benign horrors
content to be dragged into the desert, awaiting heaven in hell

When it will be so, the people freed from industry
Or when the country itself, learns not to hide its mistakes
and see’s its people, who lived before and after today
Would see the whirling dust devils fly away from this country
Which, even if its misfortune is home; it may learn from it yet.

 

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