Tattered

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This tattered thing that
Used to be a backpack
Is no danger to me here.
But back in the country of
Milk, honey and fights with
No better sides to choose
From,
It could
Too easily
Be deadly,
A terrorist's camouflaged hate,
The one meant to
Explode in a shower of
Fire and misunderstandings, of
Cultural gaps seemingly too wide and deep to
Cross.
It could be the object of death
The thing that's meant to kill me for
Living, for
Belonging to a certain group of people
With its virtues and its vices –
Virtues invisible to who they call "the enemy",
And vices – racism, refusal to try and understand,
Blind patriotism –
All too visible to them and,
Now,
Singled out to the world as
Their only marking
Qualities.
This could be a bomb meant to
Suck out my life, maybe a family member's or friend's,
Almost always an innocent's -
With its ignorant, blind
Hate.
Why is it that
They – we – suffer and must
Live through
And endless, meaningless war on
Terror and millennia-old grudges
While the children here, in the so-called
"Free world",
Know not of arson but
Of accidental fires,
Not of bombs and
Bloody red sirens
But of
Alarm clock and cell phones'
Ring?
This tattered thing that
Used to be a backpack
Is no danger to me here, but
Back in the country of
Milk, honey and
Tattered, ragged dreams
It could be
Deadly
It could be
Something meant to kill, destroy, to
Tear apart.





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