generational change

You’ll be shot at dawn.
I’ve done nothing wrong.
Nevertheless, that’s when you’ll be shot.
What happens after?
After you’re shot? I’ll roll you into the pit
we made together and fit you a suit of soil,
until my hands ache in their centres.
I never hurt anyone.
We’ve all hurt someone.
I never hurt anyone.
You poisoned the minds of children,
knelt on the throats of men,
burned the water, flooded the towns,
and sowed our gardens with salt.
Can I have a cigarette?
Here you go.
That’s not a cigarette.
It’s all I’ve got now.
Don’t I recognise you?
I was in the year below at school,
I threw rocks across the playing field,
and hit you once – you fell down,
so I hid behind the music block.
I still have that scar.
Can I get you anything else?
Let me go.
I can’t.
Let me go.
I can’t.
What happens after?
After you’re buried?
I’ll be shot too.
Why?
We’ve all hurt someone.

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