The Bullet

Little by little, strength fades from my body, This world is coming, aging and heavy. Now, we must not lie idly, spitting on fate, For wasting away is no longer our state. My parents cultivated gardens, healed the land, Their homeland was Motherland, as they’d planned. I, too, sowed seeds in the earth where I stand, And loved to reap the fruits from this land. Was I orphaned? Was my soul cast away? What has my homeland given, except lead and dismay? What have we done to be hunted and shot at? What have we done to be targets of a bullet’s blast? We once understood the language of nature’s flow, We were a people who embraced truth’s glow. But there’s nothing left for the child, you see, Except dying by a bullet, tragically. A bullet does not care for the state of its aim, It doesn’t check if you are young or old in this game. Was I born a terrorist, with that fate in my soul? Is terrorism written on my brow as a goal?