Istanbul 28-6-16 by Veronica Marjon Van Bruggen

I am not a silent poet

The eight o´clock news bleeds out of a black frame
a rectangular, perpetual lying noisy beast.

“Could have been worse”
words drip out of the reporter´s small hole
where one crooked tooth shows itself.
He cannot be trusted.

Responsible. That is a wonderful word.
For a second the whole sordid slaughter
seems less important. Who did this?

Who´s mind is twisted enough to
blow himself to smithereens,
killing fourty three and injuring hundreds
of innocents at the blast, changing
the color of the airport in crimson red.

“Could have been worse” Oh, please shut up.

A woman crouches crying next to her dead husband.
They were only heading home to their village
where now the chickens and the mule will starve.
The poor black bundle on the floor
doesn´t think it could have been worse.

Are we supposed to forgive? To understand?
Sorry, but not me.

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