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
Miranda and Ahmed embrace
on the Boulevard des ExtrÃ©mitÃ©s
where a poet holds out his hand
and takes from you the clapped-out rifle
you find you are glad to let go.
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This post was written by John Gohorry