March 13, 2019
 |  28 Comments

It has come to this, 
a bitter ebb growing along once rosy apples
some of which lie bruised on the ground
while others
more or less faithful continue to hang by a thread.
This is how we are as neighbours,
every shadow,
every ache
and every bullet whispers our name.

What does it mean to become older?
What does time imply when it compares itself to a river?
Shouldn’t we be aware of media, its underlying viciousness
and role in shaping our ideas,
shouldn’t we be the ones striving for change
in behaviour?
To the ones who fling hatred across from both sides of the border
as stones,
I will tell you what to hate
you can hate the air burdened with smoke,
the barren skies
who shun the cries of those who loathe,
you can hate indifference partially obscured by the blood-red sun.
We can end this violence
and acrimony, so that later on there will be no more burials
and the living
would no longer have to approach a corpse.

This March,
come let us wield poems that carry peace as wildflowers
rising from the earth,
pay attention to chaotic white in clouds that promise
true warmth,
we were separated from something indescribable back then,
let disheveled grass slowly turn lush again,
come,
let us join together in pursuit of forming a better future.

 

Photo credits: Katarzyna Kmiecik – Cityscapes

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United