Waltz For Zizi
At The Grave Of The Murdered
Only the paper knows,
how much grief my heart holds
for the innocent buried by the world
under the stones it throws.
I close my eyes. But it gets worst.
Bloody stones, I curse you.
Oh how useless it is
to wait for God's justice.
God, are you really their God?
I gather the stones.
The blood on them, clings to my skin
like children cling to mothers,
and sins step deep, into my soul,
wearing masks, painted with the grinning faces of the dead,
all gathered in a pile,
emptied of life, emptied of dreams,
but full of coagulated blood and broken bones,
in the name of what they call saint.
put them in front of me
the murderers in chains,
and at my feet, a mountain of stones.
In my hand, I'll take the bloodiest of them all,
while tears will waltz on my face, with the smiles of revenge.
I'd be happy.
to have nothing between me and their skin.
Even if it will take me my whole life,
I'll give them back their stones.
I'll make my poems sharp enough to bruise their hearts.
I've had enough.
But you, what the hell are you looking at?
Are you gonna help me or not?
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (At The Grave Of The Murdered by Waltz For Zizi )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
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