In the valley of volatile vibes
I feel only hot crusts
Under the seething palms of my hands
While their heads bleed
In the blanket of darkness...
I look up and try to see the guilty hands
But find none around
Except a volley of poor stones-
Big and small,
Still being hurled everywhere
From no man's land.
Are they merely stones
Or deformed shapes of gagged anger,
Or perforating hatred
Or something else in disguise?
Stop! Stay atop and never fall down
From heaven to hell!
O my brethren, stop and think--
What will you get finally
When the land you breathe on
Is lost and gone
And the neighbour you live with
Is burnt or killed for nothing?