It happened at a roadside
quarry near Pyongyang― some
of the dead were bloodied,
and still standing facing
the wall― others, who had
fallen like dominoes,
lay face-down at the base
of the blood-stained
limestone, dreams
never to be realized,
their crimes― conjoining to study
unauthorized contraband
books on Greek philosophy―
nearby, some uniformed workers
with picks and shovels
worked feverishly, digging
a mass grave, while
a smirking Kim Jon Un looked
on, waving like a bobblehead
dashboard ornament from
the back seat of a refurbished
old Mercedes limousine―
the workmen, and the soldiers
who supervised them, bowed
with matching sycophantic
grins, out of respect,
and to glorify their supreme
leader, as if his presence were
the only thing that mattered
on that day― it's an old,
and always astonishing story
of mad, evil men who rise
to power, and rule their oppressed
subjects with cruelty and abuse,
and always to satisfy some
delusional sense of entitlement
as they travel ever-further
along the broad road that
leads to their own destruction.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem