One day

One day you’ll run out of cartridges

one day you’ll run out of anger;

you’ll never fill up the mortuaries

with the bodies of those you put there.

The musicians will carry on playing,

the singers will carry on singing,

the stadiums buzz with the voices

of fans in their endless millions.

Children will play in the streets,

young mothers suckle their babies

at the top of the Eiffel Tower,

Miranda and Ahmed embrace

on the Boulevard des Extrémités

where a poet holds out his hand

and takes from you the clapped-out rifle

you find you are glad to let go.

Categorised in: Article

This post was written by John Gohorry