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Poem

Unwritten page
An unwritten page on a Word processor, I ought to leave it this way 
look and dream of what I could have written on the page
If I delete words I have written, the page will be blank again
No history, a crumbled-up sheet of paper for the waste basket 
For now, it is too late, but when coming to the end of the sheet
My wife was in Johannesburg for surgery. Born in Congo, she is
Light-skinned, but traveling on a Portuguese passport, she
Boarded a bus for the blacks, great consternation, the police
To go on the bus for the white people
Racism and ignorance, now it is the Muslims who feel the
Ignorance, we want them to be like us, not insist on doing
Their own things
Israel is a racist country, a thistle under the saddle of 
And an Arab stallion, and can’t last the way it is ruled 
The sheet is fouled by an opinion no one wants to hear
What now, erase the page and write about the moon

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