There, under your sky
I poison your rivers and cut down your trees
Decorating my city with your holy text
Round and round we go, one foot behind the other
All for this decadent battlefield we call home
The corpse you planted last week grew into an olive tree
Made of misshapen parts, V-12 rockets and children’s eyes
The sight of it offends me. You deserve nothing.
Not the air in your lungs powering your screams
Nor the dirt scraped between your fingernails
I’ll raze your fields, your crops, and your schools
I’ll devour your children and swallow your prayers
I’ll blot out the sun and bring down the stars
Blacken the days and plague the nights
Here, under my dome
On this plentiful land we call promised
The fig tree’s in bloom, what a cursed blessing
Stretching out til it scrapes against the horizon
But somehow, all anyone can notice
Is the misshapen olive tree sprouting through the concrete.
The Sad-Eyed Boy is a procrastinator and a pessimistic idealist, who has been known to write the occasional poem or two in between mouthfuls of lazy daydreaming (and peanut butter). He resides in Johannesburg.