There is anger in poetry
in the intimacy of my dreams, ask myself
is there any wisdom blended in the passion of a poem?
is there any beauty that rages the animal instinct?
What does it mean?
don’t boots anger the ants in their shelter?
fires burn the heart of the soil
storms smooth the surface of mother earth
the wrath of rivers drags along sand and stones
why not then my passion rooted in rage
the fury in the fiery trench of history
the companion living death of wars
blood tinting rivers and cities
skeletons of 500 years aerate my wisdom
children knifed for the sake of few “good old days”
elders trapped by sweeping napalm bombs
butchering the purity of humans
crowded bullets uphold the conquerors laws
this poem is filled with rage
Isn’t every one?
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