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Voters ©

Mary Mazzilli
Herts, England
2003

It is an apparent democracy
among flash lights in the air,
the sky smells of their feet,
of their gunpowder,
of the excrement of their boots.

Sliming steps,
indiscriminating they shoot..

An excited scent in the shouted songs
had filled the air in waves of millions
towards the sky.
Where helicopters flew in pairs,
watching us from afar.

And London had become our home.
Its streets filled with our own riot.
But who cared?

Did we fear boomerangs coloured in blood,
extraordinary firelights and smoking raids
in the Underground, after the end of a prayer?

It matters no longer, in spite
our voice was right!

A horror film!
We all looked amused in the street!
We do not smell the same air.
We do not hear the same shouts
as the Others, who were over there.

Our whispers came through microphones,
deafened by triggers and other guns!

Yet, smashed the TV set out of rage, we say:
Do they have the right?
Why did not they hear us?
Black capitalists have oil.
Marx is dead!

Who is going to stop them?

Our cross on paper did not want to fill
their gall bladder with the Others' blood.
Our choice was made out of trust
when there were not so many, mostly all around rust.

Old barbarians needed to retain their new Empire
with compromised freedom.
So do we, and they!

Who has the right?
We are too far from the Others
in our papered castles, only closer to our victims,
as it is in nature, as it was in old tribes.
Who cares?

I cannot, either.
The poet is a jelly fish
in a shell full of self!
Anyway, the Others can still celebrate a sort of peace.

Our choice is apparent and illusory.
Germans paid their debt to history.
Will they? One day?
'No more terror!': we chose!


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