A Wounded Century

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

author : Tan Lioe Ie


A man is crying
        his tears become clouds
turn to rain
and flow to the sea
But that’s not why he weeps


The century turns, almost without respect
Monstrous cannibals with ravenous appetites
are no longer satisfied with flesh
They consume all voices
They swallow all hope
They snack on the last scraps of freedom

On their never-ending arena of battle
among the bones of the fallen and vanquished
They shout: “Off to the sky’s limits!
maybe there’s some left-over hope up there.”
While mocking the priests.

Having disposed of the earth
they fly off to nibble the skies: To hell with
the new century.  To hell with our grand-
children’s futures: “The dispossessed can
Always migrate to another planet.”

A man is crying
Exiled to civilization’s asylum
Isolated like some rare plant or animal

But he doesn’t weep for himself
Not for himself.

Filed under : EDITION  -

ARCHIVES of July , 2005