Weapon of a poet

Our only weapon against your crimes
are our pure thought and feeling,
cought in words and between lines,
forever wanting and dreaming.

On the wings of words we fly
where faces melt and bodies evaporate,
to the magics of our sky,
where we can cry, freed from hypocrisy and hate.

All we can do is run
run to the places of our universe
where our differences fade in the power of the sun,
and loose ourselves in the silence of the verse.

Only word and our thought, we can give
prisoners of our own passion,
dear humanity, try to forgive:
for our strong and brutal compassion.

We have no means than our words,
suffering in our helpfulness,
while we look at the destruction of our worlds,
loosing ourselves in a sorrow, suffering – endlessness.

Into the depht of our soul we go
evening walks in a park
accompanied by the flight of a white owl
showing our way out of the dark.

We run from burden of the chain
in wish to save you too,
to run away from caricatures, their constrain,
out to the eternity of the blue.

But nothing than naive we are,
powerless, pathetic clowns,
something strange for your eye, bizzare,
souls without reason, nor justified grounds.

Yet, our words will stay
for thousands of those that are yet to arrive
as a path of their way,
as a help in this cruelty to survive.

 

 

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