Visting Rabin Square, February 2017

Yes, I also tripped over the security barrier and had to look down when I heard the shots over the radio.
And I too saw a new landscape when I raised my eyes.
Grotesque, perversely distorted, hacked into morbid configurations, with twisted mocking passageways.
Men without sophistication attacking passersby, wrenching away and smashing filigreed silver work.
Hucksters chattering incessantly, turning my own language into words I could not understand.
It caught us at a moment of inattention. We were bantering cheerily on our march, as if the road ran smoothly ahead of us.
What did we discover? There was no road. Our frailty had prevented us from thinking to bring pickaxes and cement.
Suddenly there was no time for reflection.
A whip was driving us all to a future planned by some subterranean force.
Now we truly saw what was in front of us.
I can show you hate—not the malignancy in the chest of the man with the semi-automatic pistol.
But the one spread among those that lie around every corner, burrowed into their hearts.
We need our pickaxes to do the excavation.

Andy Oram
February 20, 2017

More poems