What I Never Wanted
The door to Turkey
a road to Aleppo
far from the Euro
more misery.
The red compass
is not turning
to the West
and we at best
do turn our backs
at them.
Return to sender
our defender
remains
while
bloodclodded
children
escape from hell.
We are numbed
without bombs
or lungs
to hold
long enough
breaths
for peace.
I try to reconcile
my file cowardness
hide from dismal
and from distress.
All i do is kill
myself and my pride
my will to stride
for higher ends.
Here it ends
in defenseless
cages
they sharpen
their knaves,
silver blades
of a steep but too deep
darkness
of fear
which never
ages,
like the news
of this mess
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poem by Madrason writer
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