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Guillaume Cougué Poem
He sits and waits and sulks
as the clock strikes
and on they strike
and on he called to do no wrong 'in judgement,
in meteyard, in weight or in measure,'
And Oh! the boy thinks he see's this,
but his judgement clouded by soot black eyes.
And so he only sees the adults have struck him wrong
as he sits and waits outside the office
for the Brother, teacher to emerge
as the clock strikes
and on they strike.
For they can not tolerate the closure of their mines,
the closure of their lives
and so they defy 'Her England,' of which
Orwell wrote and which came true in
nineteen-eighty-four
So the boy should not sulk
as the clock strikes
and on they strike
as he should see there are greater injustices
or is it true that
'he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.'
Copyright © Guillaume Cougué | Year Posted 2011
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Guillaume Cougué Poem
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned
I have stripped dead Papa of his fingers
And thrown him like Romulus himself.
'Your sins are forgiven; go in peace.'
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned
Many men have died so I may clutch Salem,
I wonder has any land soaked more blood
I wonder could a land be less Holy.
'Your sins are forgiven; go in peace.'
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned
I confined them for two centuries
and locked them in in darkness.
'Your sins are forgiven; go in peace.'
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned
I have let my force make clean children
dirty
I have told those who need to,
not to protect themselves, and they die.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.
'Forgive me, Father, for I can not, you have sinned too much,'
Copyright © Guillaume Cougué | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Guillaume Cougué Poem
Jan Palach's ashes tried to stop them.
Mohandas' blisters tried to stop them.
Tiananmen Square's dead tried to stop them.
Thích Quáng Ðuc's ashes tried to stop them.
The man against the masses
but there is no romance
only the bitter taste of burnt
on the masses tongues.
And those that taste it will
one day be numbed to its sting
as they feast on it with
Beelzebub
And those who shed it
have no time for the luxury of
contemplation for they burn
as if they share the company of
Beelzebub.
No friend, there is no romance in protest.
Copyright © Guillaume Cougué | Year Posted 2011
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