Large is their tommy, and uniform can't be tucked
The men are all in lines, push themselves slowly
They are aged men- they are old soldiers
these are men used to command- military power
there at their faces, their eyes, the way they say words
Their bodies are old, but there is strength in that room
old men like them, robbed life from young
"yesterday's pot that causes today's death"
they are men whose names you already know
they are from the land of promises-
where they say milk perfumes the sky
where every mountain murmurs oils
Trees and flowers are full of drinking ale
It's in the wall-posters that smiles at you
then, not long ago, their manifestos were firm, fully
understood
now, but youths looks undiet and used
like lasted culprit in a killer's prison
and Didi's racks flatter than a chap's chest
The Children of their land fights plates with street
dogs
Get them talking on the tv screen,
the sweet word will go out immediately
they again comb you head with promises
For it is the only way the minors are fooled.


@20