Here, gunshots bloom
like firecrackers on a feast day,
except the feast has no end date.
Every night a small independence,
except no one is free.
What is yours is a rumor until they arrive. Ownership dies
at the sound of a whistle, and
if you dare defend the little you have,
the law turns its back like a mother ashamed of her child, and drags you, not them, before the judge.
I have walked through a slaughterhouse once,
smelled the quiet that follows the blade.
This is worse. Here the blade walks upright,
wears a school uniform it never grew into,
carries a gun like a lunchbox,
too heavy for the hands that hold it.
These are not children.
Children chase kites, not victims.
These are boys wearing the skin of children,
demanding tribute from strangers
the way their fathers should have demanded homework.
We are the ones who pay their allowance in fear.
When blue lights finally catch them, their
mothers wail louder than the sirens, and you
cannot tell if it is grief for the child, or grief that
the game is over.
To live here is to walk a blade's edge
disguised as a sidewalk.
One moment you are a mountain, immovable,
and certain.
The next, you are meat,
hung and quiet and forgotten,
another name the news
will mispronounce
once and never
speak again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem