Silence

The gods took out their fishing rods. People got into bulldozers. Fish won't sate the flesh that's teeming in the lake. Bullets have grown more popular. Storms in the sky, flags flying. Gangster states slyly hand out roses. Low-cost airlines fly their own back home, and abandon the others. Handfuls of children's bodies — with them they grit the slippery world. So today's play-actors won't fall face-first in the mud, in an instant their insides are eaten out by beastly ideas. Provoking consciousness into armed chaos: hit them, take them out, so that within a missile's range not one of the bastards is left. There's enough wood for everyone for wooden boxes. Children's schoolbags along the roads like stacks of exercise books. Buttons are pressed in a fit of anger with the bitterness of loss, and the shovels keep on cutting squares into the earth. To make a pause — and children, and to paint over the frescoes. People on bulldozers, and the gods are changing their lines. What's the point of a minute's silence? Maybe shout out loud instead… This World flying into the bin Like a crumpled paper ball. I'll be walking past I'll take it out and smooth its edges We must not stay silent, but say something Despite the lawlessness and the hounding.