The Dew of Morning

On the grass the bare feet of the young

taste the dew of morning,

under the grass, in the fertile soil,

rest the bones and ash of the old

relieved from flesh.

In the dreams of the young

shadows appear among the sunshine -

the lives lived to give them life.

In the soil rest, one with the land,

those whose dreams the young were.

The young grow old and go away,

and they will rest where they forebears rest,

and life will send forth its new generations

like spring its new green grass

and again the bare feet of the young

will taste the dew of morning.

14.03.2016

What 'the end of Communism' has shown us

is that the true Communists were and are right

and the Social Democrats were and are wrong:

There can be no middle way between

socialism and capitalism,

no middle way between decent society

and the all-devouring greed.

There is no path to decent society

through bourgeois democracy of capitalism,

there is only a cul-de-sac from which

we must make our way back to the barricades.

What was build through suffering must through suffering fall:

Capitalism brought down by blood and stones and bullets and bombs.

Bourgeois society torn apart by a Red Flood that leaves devastation behind,

ruins to be swept aside to build all anew.

11.03.2016

From your brow

the sweat and suffering of a life-time

all the unfulfilled hopes

the crushed dreams

the wishes that would now never be

the disappointments caused by loved ones

the pain the fear you felt

swept away by the cold hand of death

swept away

because I didn't turn it away

11.03.2016

To Fadwa Abu Tir(1964/1965-2016)

I lived 51 years on my land,

under occupation them all.

Then I once raised my hand

in anger to struck the invader,

after 51 years of waiting

for them to go.

They shot me then

and I died there,

my blood bleeding on the

ancient stones of Jerusalem.

They have seen much blood,

they will see more

until my land is free.

08.03.2016

When the first spring after my passing comes,

the grass will still sprout sprightly green,

the flowers will grow to open their petals,

the birds will make their nests and sing,

the Sun will softly warm them all,

the spring breeze will bring them cool.

That is enough for me.

08.03.2016

The Tempest - Call for a Revolutionary Theatre

In a better play

Caliban would have them devoured

and reigned master of his island land

with Prospero's skull as his cup,

just like the merchant Shylock

should have gotten his pound of

Christian flesh,

and then another one.

Those made into monsters

by others' monstrosity

should be our heralds

shouting for a better world

from the stage before

and after the curtain falls.

01.03.2016