Mary Helen Porter
artist - curator
paris is on fire
the cobble crushed by stomps of indignant satire
words of mystery shape every tomb
cries squandered by missile like
mine. yours. not ours.
give me the hour when i will not be ashamed
and my nation and state will finally strive to save
to help, to love, to hold
to vow its liberty to the work of the world
we are not extraordinary in our acts of fear
we do not aspire to be great by running from our
the world with acts of state
This iron gate sharpens and betrays any escape
from evil and wrong
they heard of a picket fence dream
green grass and a crimson door
the welcoming smell of cinnamon and soft woven arms
embraced and assuring safety
they are more scared
they are more worn
they are the result of terror that you cannot seemingly imagine
they pray for paradise
It resembles a ghetto in your eyes
Because all they desire is no more ringing in their ears
Equilibrium not at war
balance in their survival
and peace our heart
if all they desire is this,
then tell me, please, oh what are you to fear?