Let Me Tell. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

Let me tell of the innocents that fell
Beyond the trenches, beyond the years.
Who slept on mounds of filth that smelt
Of crushed desires, of half furnished cheers.
Let me tell of the hardened children who sell
Flesh in the market of shame to the vultures
That still name themselves the ramparts from hell
And consider it a game to tease, chase and capture.
Let me tell of smoldering anger that burns here under
That keeps the heart waiting for an ideal that's forming,
For an image that's breaking, for a word that's thunder
Deafening, deadening, sweeping, reaping, all storming.
Ponder this, ponder.