writing upon the surface of
the water
foams of the sea sprung from
winds and seagulls
hovering for some fish from
the grey clouds
upon a cold morning by the
port
out there the silhouettes of
fishing boats and horizon
fill our view of this earth
while we wait we take coffee
and little talks about what
happens when our small world is
taken away from these terrorists
how are we in this waiting
contentment our inability to carry
arms and be like them willing
to kill and die if necessary.
we dread blood and we cannot
afford another bloody revolution
which caused the disappearances of
our forefathers.
when pushed against the wall
what can be done? we look at each
others' eyes and arrive at the
same conclusion: we will be ready.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem