The first news that surrounds us
Is that for every uprising in the world,
In every representative, there was
Previously an atrocity.
But who are those
Who bleeds with us?
If the key to the answer shouldn’t be addressed
To anyone, then tell me, dear friend,
Who bears the blame?
The billionaires, perhaps, who in their palaces, oblivious to the pain,
Count their millions between their fingers,
While the minority, in tears, beg for a dose
Of life
That does not bring them pain.
I feel like I’m in a bar conversation, where few
Are willing to talk, but you, who have made it this far,
Are willing to listen.
And I ask you once again,
Who bears the blame?
All of us, after all,
Who allow this unequal order
And who can change it with a final shout.
Final shout?
You ask me in astonishment.
Yes, dear friend, revolution does not announce itself.
I would say it is born in suggestions, in acts of courage,
Like the sisters who, in the shadows, advance
Against oppression, without making a fuss.
The shout may echo, but the change
Begins in silence, in the strength of the heart that seeks
To not let pain spread among the innocent.
The argument I bring to you is that there is a key to the answer,
And the blame lies with those who, looking to the past,
Ignore the reproduction for the future.
For those who close their hearts
For what they believe is just.
Each of us decides which fight to fight
And which secret to carry
And to understand whether injustice should be accepted
Is like a circus, where the audience applauds
The acrobats are us,
And we risk our lives.
But do the spectators pay for the ignored suffering
Of the clown?
Or is his suffering on tightropes
An applause for those who ignore the pain
Of the world?
Hidden behind the colorful makeup,
While their tears flow,
The applause decides what deserves attention,
And what is thrown on stage
Are merely coins derived from the misery
That has been hoarded by the boss
Who doesn’t even pay for a loaf
For the crowd that applauds.
It can change its tune
And demand justice in a slogan that became a song.
And with that, I raise a toast to you, great friend,
The clowning and the pain, are merely a reflection
Of what we carry within ourselves,
Because the key has a name and address;
So, know that the key belongs to no one
And feel more appreciation for life and liberation
With this story, it will remain in your heart.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.