I am compelled to stay alive.
But are you compelled
to shoot me?
In this storm of fire and blood,
I am compelled
to take my child to school,
my beloved home,
my mother to the hospital,
and my wife to the maternity ward.
But are you compelled
to aim at my head?
In this darkness,
I am compelled
to light a lamp,
to kiss my beloved
and hold her in my arms.
But are you compelled
to sew our lips together
with bullets?
I am compelled.
I am compelled,
now that I have caught fire
and melted,
to pour out of my house
into the streets,
to set the garbage bins ablaze,
so I may know
I am human.
But are you—
are you compelled
to shoot me?
We are compelled.
We are compelled
to gather one another’s lips,
hands, songs,
and wounds torn to pieces
from the streets,
to piece them together
and turn them into a river.
But are you compelled
to turn our dark days red,
to redden the asphalt
with our blood?
How is it that you kiss your wife
while counting bullets
and the stamps that declare
birth certificates void?
And the perfume
you bought for her—
does it not smell of blood?
Does it not smell of blood?
Does it not?
How is overtime counted?
By the hour,
or by bullets and people?
By shots to the legs,
or shots to the head?
How is it
that a human being
is not obliged to stay alive,
yet is obliged,
even alone,
to kindle a light…
Which is harder—
the bullet,
or the heart of the one
who pulls the trigger?
And which is heavier—
lead,
or the heart of the one
who gives the order to fire?
