RESISTANCE POETRY WALL -100 THOUSAND POETS FOR CHANGE

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2 Responses to 100tpc20122

  1. Poet: DƯƠNG HOÀNG HỮU ( Vietnam ) says:

    * * * * *

    IT IS PROBABLY LOVE
    Poet: DƯƠNG HOÀNG HỮU ( Vietnam )

    Translator /Poet : Abahn Leth

    Waves may carry away all dream to the sea
    The sea may smash and bury all hope easily
    Wind may break up trees to fall down
    Sunshine may make ricefields turn yellow-brown
    But those things may be in a fancy
    If our love was the waste soil sandy or muddy
    It would be the place for burying with intention
    For becoming immortal person devoted to defend his country.

    You often think any love will be broken
    As the sunset behind hills will die out all in a sudden
    As a shooting star is alone and sullen in the dark night
    And the earth still leads a solitary life in sight.

    With a little of dream I live for some desire and hope
    Don’t forget : it ‘s hard to keep an eagle tight enough
    In the prison cell while it’s longing for the blue sky
    From the fire of dust and ashes it revives
    You keep my love like a marble in your pocket
    But I hide your eyes in my soul already set
    Our love doesn’t the last one, more or less
    When voluntarily cremating all countless sadness
    You’ve even told yourself sadness is light…!

    Poet: DƯƠNG HOÀNG HỮU ( vIETNAM )

  2. Daniel de Culla says:

    SONG TO THE RUINS OF AMERICA
    With the Glyn Ford’ eyes:
    “Fascist Europe-The Rise of Racism and Xenophobia”
    I see with horror how from an american country to another
    Racism and Xenophobia are cultivated in ist fields
    Inspecting the growth of fascism and its relationship
    With the capitalist families’ domain
    As Daniel Guerin saw in his “Fascism and Big Busines”
    When Fascism was flourishing in Germany and Italy
    For nothing.
    Cities and fields returns to watering the river Biederitz
    Feeder of the river Elba
    That brings the Hitler and Eve’s cremated and crushed remains
    Together with others of theirs on the studio couch
    Where they were found suicided
    Perhaps the same couch of love where Neville Chamberlain
    the British Prime Minister was sat.
    River that joins and, at the end, matchs to the river Potomac
    In Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean
    Rested in backwater of the White House’ pool
    Built in its foundations and frames
    by slaves and Irish and Italian workers without papers
    that tomorrow will come to call “Trumpbunker”.
    He’ll walk in the middle of the garden
    Arrogant his figure as a God with joke eyes, body to much he-man
    And penisly classic figure
    whose Te Deum will be of the Asses and the Marquis of Sade.
    Heil¡ He’s the “Uro of Heck” big, robust, with long horns
    a brown copper hair, with skin of a certain form
    with fierce behaviour.
    Heil¡ He’s the new Thartac, God of the Hivites with Ass-headed
    well known and loved by priests and parish priest.
    Nor the snow neither the wind will lash, that they believe
    The angry figure of this God-man who loves life
    As a desolated tyrant with dizziness of sex just nasty
    running towards the void of a great National and Global Zoo
    upon which will erect a statue to the Ass
    to which will come the souls of the Eve’s terrier breed scottish dogs
    and the Hitler’ German Shepherd Dog with her cubs
    to piss lifting up its leg.
    And Fabius will sing near the doors of the White House
    The new “Trumpbunker”
    the Rodrigo Caro’s paraphrased song to the Ruins of Italica:
    “These, Trump, poor me¡ that you see now
    Lonely fields, gloomy hill
    Were a time great America”.
    Because the crime, the evil, the cruel and bloody
    Assembly of wars against another peoples and nations
    Ever returns, sooner or later, against one and another.

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