Hama

They hid the truth, in 1982.
Nothing on the news, then it was late.


Today history repeats,


Wheelspokes revolve, as the tanks roll in.


Now rumors escape the dishonest regime,
Drawing water from a river, the wheels keep on rolling.

"Hm... yes... a man holds the fate of the world in his two hands, and yet, simply because he is afraid, he just lets things drift- that is a truism... I wonder what men are most afraid of... Any new departure, and especially a new word- that is what they fear most of all... But I am talking too much. That is why I don't act, because I am always talking. Or perhaps I talk so much just because I can't act. I have got into a habit of babbling to myself during this last month, while I have been lying into a corner for days on end, thinking... fantastic nonsense. And why have I come out now? Can I really be capable of that? Am I really serious? No, of course I'm not serious. So I am just amusing myself with fancies, children's games? Yes, perhaps I am only playing a game."

-Fedor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

I turned back

Today I stood,

At the edge of the world.

I've yet to see anyone fall...

But dead winds roar

The ground is slick,

And water wets the floor.

I stared at an ocean's black,

Thicker than I've seen before;

I could have swiftly swum, or sunk.

But my stomach churned, my gut went soft

And my brain began to thump,

My thoughts bled into the water,

But I pumped them back,

And of that, I thought no more.

Today I walked, right to the edge,

And dipped my toes quick in the shore;

I turned back, I turned back.

La Gran Ciudad

Edificios dorados al atardecer

Brillan como luz reflejada sobre el mar.

El extranjero contempla su Inmensidad;

Un paraje temporal, nunca un Hogar.

La ciudad lo alberga, gigante.

Lo abrazan sus cadenas de calles,

Lo asfixian con su ruido, su humo contundente,

y lo integran en su silueta sobre el Rio y sus caudales.

Los edificios celebran la unión,

Ventanales brillantes que arrojan sus destellos

Sobre la pareja como arroz.

Las paredes se pintan para la fiesta con aerosol.

El extranjero raptado intenta huir,

Pero es demasiado grande la Inmensidad.

Tiene leves recuerdos de alguna vez

Haber tenido otro Hogar.

Y los árboles exóticos se ponen a luchar,

Alzan sus ramas e inician la destrucción.

El extranjero corre sin poder escapar,

Sin tener un lugar donde descansar

Hasta que recuerda que existe el avión,

Y un aeropuerto donde lo puede tomar.

Armado con su pasaporte se lanza a volar,

Pliega sus alas buscando una nueva nación.

De mientras, la ciudad se pone a llorar.

El río inunda los cordones de sus calles.

La pintura de sus edificios se corre con la humedad.

El sol ilumina sus solares baldios como pequeños valles

Y la ciudad alarga su tentáculo,

Buscando al fugitivo con los días de compás.

Intentando invitar al extranjero

Se expande cada día un poco más.

A day out with Jamie

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915 (WWI)


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.