Bellu

I scrutinize the smoke forming up in the sky

Morphing into the shape of a grieving mother;

I hath no faith in humanity anymore

As people around the blue orb spectate like passersby.

There is a lover down the street Who has gone unmoored,

As the hand he held on to so dearly Is now painted like crimson skies

What rot or curse has settled in the marrow of our bones?

It is high time we flip the calendar’s pages

It is high time we take to the streets,

And turn twenty-twenty-six into the new seventeen-eighty-nine;

To wipe out the men who feast on tender lives,

And the men who commit genocides.

Let the guillotine of history claim its stage,

For those who sell the innocent for silver, wine, and arbitrage.

Though they hide their sins behind a gilded door,

I’ve seen the slain, the genocide, the scars of the poor.

Let the Pear of Anguish represent the pain they’ve caused

To those who just wanted to live a life of peace evermore.

-A.S