PARIS: The Cry of an Angry
The Cry of an Angry
What a dangerous afternoon
The smell of oil, the smell of sweat
In the distance, the sound of engines
Behind the window are rifles
Behind the rifles are eyes
Behind eyes are hands
Behind the hands, a heartbeat
Baby, don’t be afraid
I will be beside you
Baby, don’t be afraid
I will be beside you
When the time comes…
Seimeni are coming…behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands, a heartbeat, baby!
It isn’t my intention for this text to be politically driven. Not in the least. Perhaps socially responsible, but primarily personal. I heard and saw everything, even more than I should have. I don’t need to. Everything is clear to me. More madness. I only know that some people have been killed. Right? Who killed them? Some other people. Maybe politics. Maybe religion, maybe something else, but is it even important? I only know that until people “wake up” – at least the critical majority which will be able to lead the rest – these things will still happen. Everyone cares, everyone is grief-stricken, lighting candles. Organized. Everyone is politically correct. They send letters and telegrams to the bereaved families. They turn up at funerals in large numbers, offering their wholehearted support. But you know what? It’s too late now. This won’t bring light to a mother whose child was killed. Not even a little. And how does the mother of the child that took a gun and killed in the name of whoever? They are drowsy, misled, defeated and abandoned. Both one and the other. Where are the others? The ones who are awake. Flowers and spring, Hare Krishna. Let the light shine on. Should I judge them? Of course not. They didn’t drink water from the same well. Not even close. Then who is to blame? Maybe God? Yes, let’s put the blame on God. What an idyllic delusion and perfect alibi. Surely, He is to blame for everything.
Do you know who is responsible? We all are. I too am to blame. I am guilty because I don’t clean my own garden as often as I should. I leave the garbage for two days before throwing it out. Yes, I am guilty. If each of us washed ourselves every day, took care that garbage doesn’t come out of our moths, made less garbage and threw it out on time, stared less into our neighbour’s garden, chose our leaders more wisely, spent less time chasing after money, understood our own children more and created a more peaceful future for them, loved our children more, maybe then some lost child in their twenties or thirties wouldn’t allow themselves to take a gun and commit murder in anybody’s name. Because, behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands a heartbeat, baby! Who took care of the heart that took the gun? Who? Nobody! It makes me want to scream from the top of my lungs, because of capitalism, a non-existent democracy, a lost child, the madness for money. Madness. Sometimes I am under the impression that we are all sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. When will an alarm ring and wake us? Yes, the Universe – God is guilty, I’m sure. Constellations. Conspiracies. False affirmations. This event will once again be the perfect excuse for some other passive leaders from the shadows to waste a little more ammunition that has passed its sell-by date. Because it’s wrong to keep it after its sell-by date.
Do you know who is truly guilty? Guilty are we who are conscious, but kept quiet. Because we are lazy and scared to take responsibility for the development of society. Our own back gardens. It’s much easier to sit in a chair and criticize. Yes, It’s easier. And then someone comes to praise how smart and wise we are. But when it’s time to be a missionary, to put in some elbow grease and go between ordinary passive masses, to wake them and tell them it’s time to get up out of bed and look at where you are and who you are – then we would rather sleep. We are lazy and afraid. So, where did we get the right to become so full of ourselves and be angry about the fact that our country is f***ed up…, that the world order is catastrophic, almost anarchic, terrible, that some religious fanatics are killing people not even knowing why. If we can’t be bothered to be missionaries, let us at least take care of our children. Let us at least look after the hearts of the children and not allow that heart to someday recognize a rifle or murder as a solution to anything.
Because, I repeat, behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands a heartbeat, baby!