Somewhere a poet was put to death
Just now, moments ago, last night.
It doesn't matter
Whether they stoned him in the public square
With pomp - gloating in their fear - their fear of the poet.
Or whether they just stood there with industrialized faces,
Well rehearsed brutalities, practiced oppression,
And the poet just slunk away to his room and hung himself.
Somewhere a poet was put to death
Just now, moments ago, last night.
In this fragmented world that they so fear unfragmenting, the poet was weaving an everymans shirt. From the golden threads of freedom and hope.
Somewhere a poet was put to death
Just now, moments ago, last night.
