If I could tell, in images,
the way myfingers type,
all that I have seen
through these weary blood-shot eyes.

The feeling of desolation and grief,
when hunger has a face, ragged skin,
and drags itself down the alley of a dim-lighted street.

Or the anger, at the loss,
at the blood and the guts spread over pavement.
The buildings crumbling down,
the bullets piercing through.

The colours of the seasons, the smiles of toothless children.
Mountanous temples, pachinko slots and a tejo game.
A mizo soup, a schnitzel and paella.

Thousand fingers typing on cellphones,
stations flying outside the train windows,
mines blowing people's legs.

War in Irak, terrorism anschlag, blood in my land.

The same picture, here there, and everywhere.
Desolation, love, pain, faith and who knows what else.
Faces, fingers, skin, flesh and bone.

A beautiful encounter, in Paris, in Cairo, Dar es salaam or Hong Kong.
A gentle kiss flying through the world wide web.
Sex scandals, papers, pedophile and helping hands.

You dream of company, to share your weary dreams,
share body, soul, friendship, smiles and tears.
We seek each other, but we find ourselves.

Mournful, as I am, not all my eyes have seen
can be explained, in words herein.

One thing is clear, true it shall not be:
Paradox, this is a paradox we live in.

Where one can chat and see beauty in the other end,
through a screen, in a land you've never been.

And we know, there is someone outside,
giving a warm embrace, building a tent or parking a car.
While somewhere else, at the same time,
someone's being raped, another one murdered, a land waged into war.

We can create it all, and we can destroy it too.
There is no difference, between tomorrow an yesterday.
It is not in the what but in the how.
Our love for suffering, for joy and finally,

for a place that is no more.