You tell me that the revolution
is going to end,
and I’ll drop my weapons this second.
You tell me that these protesting voices
will have an ear to listen to,
and I’ll put away the microphones.
You tell me that I won’t have to
scream and shout at walls until
my throat becomes a dessert,
With words as as cactuses pricking my every sinew,
reminding me that I have more blood in me
that what has already boiled.
You tell me that this desert will find an oasis,
large enough to fit all the colours,
skins, pledges and promises.
Wide enough, to be able to engulf
all of the hatered and the spite,
expanding and extending in all possible directions,
Growing with every word,
every syllable, every vowel,
to the extent that I don’t know
what’s wrong from right anymore.
Don’t know if my beliefs
are valid anymore.
Then I will learn to love the beach
and the freedom
you say it has to offer.
Every textbook that taught us
the essence of freedom,
has become tainted today
With tar and soot; so black,
that the revolutionaries are now
nothing but rusted portraits.
No eyes to bring out the urge to fight in us.
No faces to lure us into their speeches
and entwine us into their revolt.
All I see today is
with no hands to handle what it can do,
with no legs to control how far it goes.
But most importantly,
no face to identify itself
from the peace and from the war.