At midnight, I go to bed
But sleep doesn’t descend.
In the air, I hear people’s cry under bombing
And children’s cry in hunger.
‘What can I do for them? ‘ I shout.
My pen replies, ‘Pick me up
And compose a terrific poem
To teach the oppressors a lesson.’
My sword replies, ‘Seize me
And start fighting for them.
To live you have to fight
Against the killers.’
I pick up my pen into one hand
And my sword into other;
Blood starts dancing; and I can
Neither eat nor sleep.
