Anonymous

Poem by Walter William Safar: Better World

Dear Friend Anonymous,

I am old fashion poet(I wrote Poems on an old typewriter)…

Many times, while escaping the real world, I used to find my sanctuary in the blissful chest of mother Art. With these poems, I am curing the hungry soul, and it hungers for compassion, Freedom, Justice, just like any human soul does.

Hungry and thirsty, I am staring into the very heart of the dark spirit of my own subconscious, and I would feel betrayed for who knows how many times, only to appease my thirsty soul with a torrent of tears, because poetry is like a tear on the face of mankind.

I don’t know much about victories, but I am sure of one thing, that compassion, Freedom, Justice is a victory of the human spirit.

P.S. Why people want controled other people?

Why people WANT to cill Freedom?

Why greedy politicinas,bankers,corporation want rule with human minds?

REMEMBER: Neither a dictator can not kill the voice of Freedom!!

I dedicated this poem to Greedy Bankers, corporation, politicinas.

MANKIND :REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!!

ALLEY OF FREEDOM

While the voices of greed

sing in your ears, keep in mind that conscience lives

for as long as light comes from the soul

and the devil-this agitator of division and greed-

was in our lives,

In the middle of the circle,

-like a lamp holding heads-,

an unconquerable tyrant.

When the winds of greed sing in yours ears:

“Conscience does not bri-ing bread to your taa-ble!”

remember your new dignity,

because conscience is of such a sacred rank,

there are so few of those who drink from fountain

and even less of those who are crowned with dignity;

proudly treading the alley of Justice;

proudly treading the alley of Freedom;

When the voices of greed sing in your ears

about the inconquerable tyrant,

-and its accomplice was All the authority and all power

branded by the seal of ghosts-,

know that this poem sprung

from the ivy of the gardens of hell,

and its echo resounds down the walk of ghosts,

like bats in the haze.

Man it is time to decide:

Do you want to crawl down the walk of ghosts,

Or proudly tread the alley of Freedom.

Walter William Safar©

I dedicated this poem to world

BETTER WORLD

I want to live in a world

where everyone has the right

to await Freedom,

like all the beautiful mornings

that don’t have two cold eyes

scathingly looking at Freedom;

I want to live in a world

where we don’t dance around mister politician

and all his satellites,

while at the same time waltzing our way

to the grave.

I want to live in a world

in which I can

see a dear,

confident and faithful face

on each step of the way,

instead of those of thousands of conspirators,

sunburnt tycoons

and stern politicians,

which appear in the street

for two or three weeks a year,

with their lies

like demonic torches

in their cause against people.

I want to live in a world

where dreaming is dignity

and not a shame,

where there is no need to reconsider

one’s importance in the human society,

but it’s rather a birthright.

I want to live in a world

where people aren’t haunted by conscience

for having once eaten peas,

where food isn’t vanity to some

and mere fantasy to others.

I want to live in a world

where we don’t bring dandyism

into faith,

to discuss in dandy terms

how mankind no longer has faith;

I want to live in a world

where mankind and faith

walk side by side,

so that even prayers

aren’t necessary.

LONELY NIGHTS

Against the old oak I cling my cheek

to hear a lost voice inside;

The voice of a lost friend,

the voice of my lost father and mother,

the voice of lost love.

And in this lonely night the voices

inside the old oak are quiet and inaudible,

as if dying along with my spirit.

The night has turned its beautiful lonely face to the sky,

and I,

I call out my own name in this lonely night.

which became perfectly strange to me –

with some desperate hope

that I shall hear the echo of my own spirit.

Wise people say that each spirit is made of memories,

and my memories are dead;

dead like those lost voices inside the old oak,

which, like vampire claws,

raises its old, barren branches towards a black crow,

to steel its voice and to call out into this silent, lonely night,

like the voice of many friends of men,

that someone’s tear sometime dies before it’s born.

Inside me, there is still hope

that someone shall hear my name,

and that it won’t sound as strange

as it does to me.

Slowly and ghastly I tread the shadows

like a sinner treads the skulls in hell,

and I call out with a solitary cry

into this lonely night,

to chase away death, if I can’t chase away solitude.

But what is life worth without voices,

not the ones you can buy,

but voices of conscience,

which are born and eternally live along with human souls.

Against the old oak I cling my cheek,

and I listen in to a thousand souls,

Now I know,

yes, Lord, now I know that someone will call my name as well,

because when you hear the voices of souls

of dear people you’ve lost,

you have the power

to bear memories of yourself in someone else.

NAMELESS GRAVE

Demonic fires blaze in the eye of the stone palace,
and me,
I only stand in the dark beneath the sky
that reaches its invisible hands
out towards scores of nameless graves.
For callous dictator-Davil- Assad,
they are but nameless graves
upon which no one’s tear fell.
They were silently and swiftly buried into the black soil,
without speeches and tears,
without too many imprints
on the black soil.
(They say that everyone’s life is worth attention,
and that the dark truth is that only death equally appreciates each life)
And while they treacherously, silently and swiftly
dug a new nameless grave,
only death was faithfully listening to the crickets
feverishly spluttering away in the dark
to honor the dead child.
In the hazy grave lies the child,
like a shadow of many dreams,
and the raindrop,
brought from the honorable mountain
by the honorable wind,
softly and timidly trembles
on the dead child’s white face,
like an angel’s tear.
And dictator, killers and thugs
are sitting in the golden loges now,
ghastly and faithfully acting:
the righteous, the charitable, the Believers,
crying their copper voices
out into Global silence,
like a copper bell,
and the dead child
now waits for one tear
in a nameless grave.