Robin,
today you've
passed away.

Found under a bridge :
on earth you wouldn't stay.
Lost for six days,
on the seventh
found,
but dead you where
when they found you
facing down.
Not much friends
people say,
alone like a ghost .
At lunch, his table always
stayed empty,
never to be
dedicated a
toast.
His face is of
childhood beauty :
the one that stings
and strikes.
Now that he returned
from his one-way journey,
kids, inventors of nicknames,
suddenly start to
worry.
Who were you?
Just the dude that looked ugly.
Now where lie you ?
In a ditch all full of mud,
****** .
You are the Jesus with no cross :
the unforgettable Robin.
The king with no name,
the lion without a mane.
Maybe you were different :
as nice as people
were mean.
Maybe you just needed
protection,
from all the rejection
the silent bites, and all the unseen
strikes to your rights,
the unfair fights.
Your life
17 dead candles,
blown away with all the rest
by you final daring, descisive,
evading,
geste.

Although you aren't here
and although this isn't all clear
I wish you the best of luck
O Robin from wherever
please hear.

That day
people from windows fell,
others say, that morning
victims from windows jumped .
On that black day,
just before
all the flags down their polls they fell
towers,
cracking ablaze like matches,
pointing at the sky,
came down
raining back onto the city
hot ashes, steel, mixed
all that was left was a mound
of the best of the west's freshest flesh
left to cool down from their heat,
one limb at à time
none could say this was neat
but I was happy to still have mine.

I also remember the other poor
people, the ones that suffered the most .
On the screen you could only see more
of them leaning outside in the cold
their feet dangling in the tempest of flames and smoke,
so high they couldnt even hope
for their bones to survive the journey,
and for their body to hit a post.

After five minutes,
the first one jumped.
(or fell)
His fingers probably burnt
by all of the firery hell .
I gasped as my eyes followed the falling feather,
hoping it was only just
floating and would land
on a strong sheet of leather
Instead they all smashed into the
steets, one after another.

I was young, maybe just five..
To me world was a sandbox
a place to run and to thrive .
Too see people die,
like the ants I sqwashed under
my feet,
made me close my eyes and wonder
what the hell was out to meet
me when I would grow up and
encounter such things,
I couldn't think farther than my block
and didn't want to.
I was happy to breathe and play,
eat, run and cry and hear about
who was Honest Abe, Franklin,
and Edison
to be free to kick and shout
and to lie down and to rest in
the sun
in the grass next to our lake
and the swing under our tree
all that mattered was I was
there and all that cared was
I was **free

Yet another skeleton,
yet another bag of grime
emptying slowly its bowels
like a kiwi spills out lime.

No famous cross for this one,
the roman men were lazy that day,
dirt served as the mighty altar,
blood, spewed onto the holy hay.

Meters from this,
the savior died
in peace he was tortured
and left.
But our fellow liar here was tied
and couldn't repent from theft.

Two men were lucky
one was saved,
all the witness stood amazed:
As from the limb dripped golden blood
that shone with peiercing rays.

The biblical scene had happened;
the book could be printed out.
But one thing had been forgotten
one thing was never shout.

A man had tried to reach the cross
and ask the savior for help,
but instead his throat was slit and cut
he was not fast enough.

That hot night as the wind was blowing
a banquet was held but with toast,
bread was divided wine kept flowing :
though was cristian meat on roast.

Surely someone was there to look
upon the poor man's soul,
hopefully enough some early god
must have played that kind of role.

Forgotten relics, that man was there,
he did see more than mary herself,
kept away by tears,
blinded by her hair,
she did not see god's heir.

His bones were given to the dogs,
his face to be eaten away by pigs.
He was never honored, is it wrong ?
God’s abandoned kid.

Absence of imagination,
the End of independent thought.
Cities reek of corruption, ******
and the greatest of sins.
They raise and **** in
by the millions
yet onlysome men
seem to win.

Glorious eyes
of curve-free posters
used as wallpaper
for the cleanest streets.
Looking up
to their Father
all good citizens
try to weep
the plain and empty tears
the Party demands
them sheep.

Maybe it will soon end,
but I'm never able to trust us men;
maybe weeks will tell,
but I still can't seem to hear a bell

Inside the people's empty homes,
Fathers, sons left alone.
Big Brother dominates,
he commands,
a billion voices
in one hand.

Behind the money lies the pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets
walk the road
a thousand stories
left untold.

Blood can be found on every street,
death and life here meet.
  

Maybe it'll someday end,
but I'm never able to trust us men,
maybe years will tell;
but I still can't seem to hear a bell.

A hungry stomach calls for meat,
rotting, green, foul or sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens,
will be served,
millions of peoples
have reserved.

Between the alleys at the mass
the cross’s shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy,
use them well,
let vain ideas
fry in hell.

Maybe it's will oneday end,
but I'm never able trust us men.
maybe our grandhildren
shall one day know,
Their grandeparents wept
but did not
sow.