There is an empty building:
House full of beds and ruins,
Emptily filled with wastes and troughs,
Round it are fences, very high,
Encompassing it like a desolate field.
Who built this abandoned house,
Habited by sleeping unknowns
On the hill overlooking the river and sun?
The scars written on their faces are of
Hopeless demeanor, expressing nothing;
Everything they owned had been taken, and
Resistance had put shackles on their necks,
Eyes, feet, and mouths, all enclosed, bound within the fence.
Why do you keep pouring them wine,
Helping them heal from the void
You made on them- the soul drug?
There is a drug, a one called religion:
Healing the soul and mending its emotions,
Easing the hurt and pain (only temporarily),
Rising up, until it is quenched by addictions:
Evictions and convictions from a crumpled book of Conflict.
Who are you? Where are you going?
Heaven or Earth, or hell, you choose!
Only you can tell who you are!
There is a man in front of a mirror.
He is incomplete due to this void:
Every time he tries to fill it, it
Rips off into more emptiness, into more shreds,
Emptying holes, till the walls crumbles.
