Who says war’s no time for dancing,
that tragedy ought to be artlessly endured?
If bombs explode then let them blow
to the rhythm of musicians’
unquenched symphonies.
When the gutters fill with blood
let the paint pots spill as well,
When the flowers all are trampled,
Artists, splash the roses on
Dress the fortress, gates and walls.
More power to the poets scribbling
metaphors in dim-lit bedrooms
as the buildings crumble down.
And here’s to ballerinas who
spin unhindered through the rubble
shaking dainty fists to fate –
Suspend the mail, cut the power,
park the cherished cars,
But leave hope alone.
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