"Who wants change?"
I stare at the last instants of my son
I bare my soul to the sun: scathe me! bathe me
In scars that will heal! The Saian
Promised that pain brings new shoots from the ground
But who shoots flowers from a gun? 
But I see flowers rising from bullet-made mounds.

I stare at the last instants of my son
And bear my soul scathing under the sun. Sounds
Are muffled. Hope sang birds' songs
Before on the trees above my lawn. I don't know 
That bird, but I sure know the song. 
It was Schroedinger's cat predicting my future.
But who shoots flowers from a gun? 
Nobody! Nobody believes anything else will come
Nobody bares their soul to the sun
That song is either dead or alive, but nobody's looking.
We all want to see that cat run, 
We all want to hear that song, the bird's, you know

I stare at the last instants of my son, 
For no finger will be lifted higher than abandon
No hand shall be lent, only backs bent in allegiance.

(c) nyonglema