My blood in his hands

They pronounced me dead last Friday

… no don’t cry…
Don’t come to my funeral now
The bullet shot in the desert…
Those bullet shot you heard about
they didn’t kill me…they couldn’t…
I died long before last Friday
back when they ululated at my birth
for I was born with my blood in his hands

But then I died more and more

And you ignored my death each time
I died as you toasted my ‘liberation’

And I died as you commemorated my ‘bravery’
for I was ‘liberated’ with their blood in his hands

And my bravery was the spilling of more blood
As my luck would have it I had to die more
And so I died as my friends perished
In war declared far away
As far away as heaven is from earth

In dungeons unfit for habitation by wild animals

In a desert nearer to hell than earth

In the sea filled with wrath unfathomable

In lonely foreign streets dangling from a loose noose 
I died when they died with more blood in his hands

As if there was more of me left to kill
They shot at me from the back in the desert
And they found what I had known all along
There really was nothing to kill
I had died long ago
When I was born with my blood in his hands
So when you hear the bullet shots in the desert
Rather when you hear of bullet shots in the desert
Don’t cry and don’t come to my funeral then
For I died long before I was shot
I died long before I was forced to flee
I died long before I shed blood at their war

I died long before they tortured me in dungeons unnamed
I died in your silence
I died in front of your averted eyes
I died when you were dancing over my bloodied body
I died when I was born to this wretched land
I died when I was born with my blood already in his hands