Yesterday, artists were slaughtered for their opinion.
I can’t not write about that. Hence this sad poem.
May God – whichever God – be with them and their loved ones.


An AK-47 has thirty rounds
You empty it in six counts
on the heads of draftsmen
who challenge you
with their pencils and ink
While you clamor your God
who you say is great
but don’t understand

How small are you
how much of a martyr?
Drive off, run, steal a car
Kill a copper,
or two and a handyman
While you clamor your God
who is in those people
and doesn’t understand you

Because all you do
is to hate and kill
But not smile over a cartoon
that shows what you are:
a lunatic with an AK-47
clamoring his God
not realizing
that he is abusing Him

© 2015 A.A.Ros 


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