Istreblenie Tiranov

it would be so nice to see you with so much i have to tell you
it can seem my words are wasted when they’re merely written down
in the room that i am renting there’s a table where i’m sleeping
its my first sight come the morning for there’s little else around

on the table a collection of some pills that i've been taking
i can’t tell you if they’re working but i have them, so i do
while an unused ink eraser lies beside my pen and paper
i’ll admit that while i’m writing i direct each word to you

though you wouldn’t recognise me if you were to sit and face me
you’d struggle now to place how we’ve a path that overlaps
in your memory the traces, amid a sea of fading faces,
former footsteps interlace to forge a pattern to the map

long before your claim to power, long before you climbed the ladder
long before depicted portraits matched your statue in the square
we would ruminate together in the shadow of our mothers
two conciliatory neighbours playing soldier to prepare

back then, our guns were made of branches; the river banks, our trenches
we’d embellish our adventures over every evening tea
now, you’re long past masquerading and i hear you’re soon parading
with your fleet, below my window, merely metres from me

so i face one last decision, i’ll execute it with precision
though you optimise revision as you wipe your history clean
while they deify your passage, erasing wrinkles from your image
i think i’ll muster up the courage to compose a closing scene

at first, i thought assassination might resuscitate the nation
soon deduced with consternation i’d be drowned out with the sound
may i, instead, be found by neighbours, dead,
surrounded by my letters, read
they'll sound much better said
rather than merely written down