Every fence a weapon to hold within, those
you wish to keep indoors, but pickets
in the upcoming riot
are stored in geometric lines like
the policies that crafty politicians use
to cling to padded thrones behind glass walled mausoleums.
Pull a picket
race to the centre of town
join the jostling multitudes in jubilant echoes,
scream an avalanche of miseries
imposed on you by the Power.
Burn down the crystalline bridges
where the nameplates are polished everyday
and set the city on fire. Break the bones
of the oppressors and walk free
from the cages of calamity
into the free night-where waits for you
another cycle of power hungry predators
waiting to capture the conquests
you have so carefully crafted
in your backyard fence.
Fence them in
or fence them out.
All you have, my brother
are the pickets that line
the boundary of your revolution.
Stay focused. Sharp Pointed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem