Poems ✍️

At midnight I go to bed:
Seep doesn't come.
In the air I hear the cry
Of the oppressed.

Someones cry under bombardment,
Someones in hunger;
Alas! What can I do for them?
And what can I give?

My pen says, 'Pick me up
And compose such a poem
That the oppressors can get
A true lesson.'

My sword says, 'Seize me,
Let the war commence.
To live, you have to die
And to kill some beasts.'

I pick up the pen into one hand
And the sword into another;
My blood starts dancing,
I can neither eat now nor sleep.