Are there any eyes that won’t burn When it comes their turn To be watchful throughout the sea of lies To watch over a child that cries
Crying for the father that never returned Or that rejected any stone turned Will this children’s eyes burn Because of the tears, or because it’s now their turn
Their turn to watch smoke paint the sky Turn to watch the seas rise Their time to watch their kind’s demise Burn from watching other tearing eyes
Will the eyes of the wise be blinded? When he has no more wisdom and has to be reminded Will the eyes of mothers turn to ashes in the air When they see the world they left is only more despair
Will a white dove cry When it can’t see the sky And its kin have turned grey And there’s nothing we could say To make them stay So it’s now the turn to our eyes to burn and cry For there are no doves in the sky
The ***-bellied Mercedes squealed As Meursault withdrew and Marvelled at the flames Licking The air Like marigolds on Ritilin. 'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.' He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers. The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him. Leaking smoke reminded him of Snow White’s Cottage Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born: The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood. He liked the way her roses played With the restlessness of children. Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'
Inspired by Camus' searing sense of injustice in The Stranger, which I'm studying with my class at the moment and by the riots in Bristol, UK
how many protests have you watched now? how many devolving into riots? via violent actors, on either side what was gained, for those we lost? was it in vain? did the pay outweigh the cost? or was our venture defunct? would civil disobedience had been better sought? or a more brutal insurrection, to rival those we've been taught? just do like they'd wish and lay down and die
Come to me surreptitiously like fog comes in December night I will hide you by the news of discontent and discomfort- Engulf and surround you with fear of loom, The country is going to dust now, Master has become maniac puffing the ***** of 'Power' deeming good into bad and bad into good, The books affirming violence his students seek, The guardians and protectors stand and watch the clashes like sadists forbidden to inflict pain;
I lament the plight and plunder of my sacred home, Hoping a dawn of summer amid chilly winter.
My country 'tis of thee Land of Police Brutality For thee I weep!
Land where George Floyd has died Land of the alt white pride
From every black graveside let protests ring
My country, thee land of those not yet free we cannot breathe
The original verses of the song, America, go something like this:
My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From ev'ry mountainside Let freedom ring! My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, Thy name I love; ....