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Poem
My legs shake like leaves in the wind,
my cold lips are forever shut -
not a single word to utter.

who am I, a beast? not perhaps.
a god? no, for I feel too powerless
in the midst of all these ruins.

so, who am I then, a man?
yes, but no! I can't possibly be
because if I am
why this dying silence?
why this grave-like trance?

just too tired to speak, I suppose,
a poet running out of rhymes.
yes, all I need are rhymes
to speak again and deliver with eloquence
my ringing message to the world.

rhymes! but who needs rhymes anyway?
will these dark days give rise
to a new tomorrow if my rhymes I use?
will the pain of my brothers vanish
with the bloom of my Frostian rhymes?

how my worthless life shakes
with the winds of time,
always at the mercy of the devil himself!

for who would dare rise up and question
when confronted by the guns
of an army supposed to protect me?
 
and yet, who is this devil anyway?
yes he's bathed by his stolen wealth,
sheltered by his ill-gotten gold
and watched by his demons with their guns;
but does this make of him
a master of mine, whose feet I must kiss?

it does not! because just like me
he trembles at the thoughts
of horrors yet undone, 
of terrors yet untold.

sure, he's great and I'm weak
but his feces smells just like mine
and even more!
because he is soul-less,
because his greed knows no bound.

why his everlasting arrogance then,
why that smile so mocking of my state,
why those evil eyes so suspicious of my every move?

devil! devil! you creature so vile,
you merciless creature of hate!
won't you give peace to this beggar in the street?

god thou art, a hypocritical god of doom,
of hate, of lust! you corruptor of men,
you who our riches harvest!
you shameless animal of darkness,
get out of my way!

yet the devil stays,
his laughter roaring still,
his hands gripping my neck ever so tightly.

devil-god, thou art so mighty and strong,
I am no match to your power.
you win…as I lay weak and dying.
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