Yes, pretty soon now they’ll be at your door.
They’ve orders and a warrant after all.
It doesn’t matter. You’ll be on the floor,
your wife and children having watched you fall.
Just then you’ll notice fallen scraps and crumbs,
the beauty of your startled wife’s pale feet,
the Celtic Crosses on your daughter’s thumbs,
the food above that you will never eat.
Your thoughts will have become a crimson pond
that flows out of your gagged and bleeding head
until you find yourself afloat, beyond
the reach of billyclubs and flying lead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem