They have children,  
they have homes,  
they have money,  
they have jobs,  
they have cars...
and there are so many other things they wish to have.  

We, poets,
have paper and pen.  
That's enough.

Boats
on the horizon.
The sun
is painting the vessels
in the colour of

longing.

The bus
won't wait
for you,
if you are
running late.

Too late.
The bus is now
too far.
The bus
didn't wait
for you.
Who
do you think
you are?

And my kingdom has fallen too,  
though I tried so hard to save its glory.  
All the gods and goddesses I served  
are upset with me. I'm so sorry.  

I could easily rise above the ground,  
if I only wanted to—I was so strong.  
But I've lost again what I once found,  
They were right, and I was wrong.  

Look at us; we are running away  
from the country that used to be our home.  
I never thought I could betray  
my own land, my own people, my soul.  

It's too late to sit and whine;  
it's too late to seek any forgiveness.  
Too late to turn back the hands of time.  
I'm the killer, the victim, and the witness.  

I could run, join them, and disappear,  
leaving cities of ruins behind.  
But I'll stay here; that's all I can do.  
I'll stay here and admit my crime.

Passengers on the train, with dullness in their eyes,  
sit in front of me like a reflection.  
They stare at me, unable to look away.

The train rolls on, its sound stretching seconds into hours.  
They continue to gaze at me and then at the window,  
staring so blankly that I can hear their breaths.  

From time to time, some stand up,  
step outside, and free me from their presence.  
I beg fate, "Please, don't let them come back!"  

But they return, sit down,
and resume their gaze.

I didn't start the war.  
I swear it wasn't me!  
I was sitting in my bedroom,  
listening to music and drinking tea.  

I have no reason to fight,  
to ****, or retaliate.  
I despise violence;  
I also meditate.  

I don't follow the news;  
I'd say they rather follow me.  
My only crime is that I  
feel for those who were killed.  

And yes, I cried when I saw  
a woman hugging her dead child.  
Her eyes were red from screaming  
into the silence of the sky.  

Yes, I cried when I saw her;  
I couldn't stop my tears.  
My only crime is that I  
feel for those who were killed.

The motto
of one of the Inquisitors of The Church was:

"We would gladly burn a hundred,
if just one of them is guilty".

Sounds familiar?