At Midnight

I go to bed at midnight but cannot sleep. In the air I hear the cry of the suppressed and the oppressed. Some cry under bombing, some for hunger. I ask myself, 'What can I do for them? ' The pen says, 'Take me and compose such a poem so that the oppressors may be taught a lesson.' The sword says, 'Catch me; May the war start. For survival, there's no substitute for dying and killing some culprits.' I catch the pen in one hand, the sword in another; My blood starts dancing. By that dance eating and sleeping of mine have been forbidden for ever.