I sit sharpening my machete
With a faint ring of steel on steel
The blade has been worn down
With a passion of sharpness.
Wooden handle, black with sweat and old blood
Chipped but serviceable.
I try hard not to remember
The last time steel bit bone
The last time the machete and I killed.
Shrill screaming, accusations and decades
Of unforgiving hate
A lot of it made up by the last minister in power.
Yet, the effect being the same.
Your friend becomes your enemy.
Death being the answer.
I cannot sleep at night
The memories of my actions
And screams of terror,
Keep me up, sweating in panic and self loathing.
This nightmare is shared amongst my friends
All who killed for what they believed in.
I have blood on my hands
That I cannot wash off
And the rest of my life
To remember the hate, terror and murder
That I helped inflict that night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem