Rage without outlet is the worst
when holding a gun
and seeing too well
the endless trail without brunt,
along which i watch a thousand targets,
as my hands shake with rage
and I see nothing
but lost smiles
and lost hands outstretched,
and i wonder
if the president is smiling,
if god is smiling,
but all i know for sure
is that i am not,
as i try to pretend
i don't know who to shoot
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem