It all starts with the “genos” part:
If there’s no race, it doesn’t exist
So history gets braided into little kids’ hairs
Till they remember only the victor’s tryst
With death, in order to save our forebears
For graves never wrote history. A cyst
Of truth is hidden deep where the death of fear
Meets the death of youth at the barrel to the sun.
Lifafa is wiped with the shroud of Um
Till “genos” is but a word in beach sand.
And with no “genos” there’s no “cide” :
Self defence is the panacea of every atrocity
Little children with gaping brains
Young girls’ cocoons bitterly maimed
Young boys disappear to be brutally tamed
Humanity at the end of life gets hastened
And propaganda is Elvis doing a pirouette
On a 60s world stage where truth was left
In the cold of the theatre’s steps.
So no “genos”, no “cide” and the UN higher-ups can tuck their kids in cosy blankets, with Winnie the Pooh splayed along the left creases, give a forehead kiss, walk to their own bed, sleep and prepare for another non-eventful day at work.