At my grandmother's house, I see the country.
I can feel it beneath my toes
As ants crawl unworriedly
And cows moo softly for fodder
From my grandfather's strong hand:
-A bucolic scene.

A hectic scene:
On the other side of the portal lies the Country;
The painted sky and sun - and I see part of God's hand
Billowing contentedly, as if there were not a mile under his toes
Stuck inside, I sigh and await my fodder
While my new friend hums unworriedly.

At 6 PM on Monday, I work unworriedly-
An abnormal scene.
On the screen, aliens become fodder
For my Chain Gun. I smile - such a country
In which I live. Where a man can be content with toes
On his feet and fingers on his hands.

A million grains of sand rest in my hand
And, unworriedly,
I rub them on my toes.
It's like that scen
In my Mind where a man kills his Country
To give himself a proper peace and his cattle a proper fodder.

On the news children cry for fodder,
While I quietly take notes with the pen in my hand
For Government Class. Yet people go to that country
In hopes of living unworriedly.
And I think, "they'll need a proper death scene;
Only in their graves will flowers grow from their toes."

I pick the lint from in between my toes
And leave it on the floor - fodder
Later for my angry mother. Perhaps it'll be my death scene.
Perhaps, perhaps not. I'd like to use my hands
For better things. Maybe rescuing others, unworriedly
From the burning buildings that are our countries.

I saw God's toes the other day and touched them with my hands.
They were rough were people gnawed for fodder, but there they lay, unworriedly
Amongst an apocalyptic scene. Like a link between our countries.