[poem by Sha’Tara]
Autumnal flocks of white swans
fly across the skies, land in fields and waterways
and feed. They’re not being romantic or special:
they’re feeding. That’s it and that’s all. Also,
like all of life, they enjoy being alive, rain or shine.
So, Mr. gunman, why don’t you just leave them be?
You’re such a fool, Mr. gunman, such a loser.
You’re not the hero you think in that little brain:
you’re a death dealing dead beat.
I wouldn’t say you’re a killer: that implies will,
you don’t have any of that. Just brainwashing,
washed-out drained brain, any good flushed away.
Long gone what was there in forgotten times
when you were a very young child and could still see
a butterfly or bee, squirrel in a tree, swans in flight
at which you pointed hearing their great honking;
seeing the white wings against Autumn’s grey skies.
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