When i came home yesterday,
i didn't leave behind the teargas.
neither the percussion grenades:
they were running in my blood,
exploding my day in anger.
(beat me, beat us)
This is a beautiful world:
people run, rubber bullets pierce the night,
eyes see what they have already seen before
as I weep with my hands covering my face,
hiding myself behind a tree, feeling humiliated.
How many were clubbed by the police?
Maybe i am ashamed of my country,
maybe i am that little girl afraid of the future,
biting my nails, listening to the sirens.
(beat me, beat us)
And poetry couldn't be so far from me
because right now I know not another word
apart from indignation.
i didn't leave behind the teargas.
neither the percussion grenades:
they were running in my blood,
exploding my day in anger.
(beat me, beat us)
This is a beautiful world:
people run, rubber bullets pierce the night,
eyes see what they have already seen before
as I weep with my hands covering my face,
hiding myself behind a tree, feeling humiliated.
How many were clubbed by the police?
Maybe i am ashamed of my country,
maybe i am that little girl afraid of the future,
biting my nails, listening to the sirens.
(beat me, beat us)
And poetry couldn't be so far from me
because right now I know not another word
apart from indignation.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2013
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