Many poets who have been published by the Society of Classical Poets have had their poems linked to, and therefore promoted, by the news aggregator Whatfinger over the years. The people who put this grass-roots site together are genuinely interested in truth and justice despite being in a world that seems increasingly at odds with traditional values. In appreciation, we are hosting a contest here for the best poem dedicated to Whatfinger. It could directly be about Whatfinger or it could just be dedicated to Whatfinger.

Read more about Whatfinger and the people behind it by clicking here. 



Post your poem (one poem per entrant) dedicated to Whatfinger directly in the comments section below. It’s easy. Just scroll down and post. Only one poem per entrant. (If you posted more than one, let us know which one you would like to keep and we will erase the others.)



$100 and publication on Whatfinger.



April 1. Winner and honorable mentions announced April 10.






Anyone anywhere may enter, with the exception of Mike’s own family who are not allowed to enter.



Mike Bryant, SCP Moderator




NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets.

The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments.

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28 Responses

  1. Damian Robin

    Thank you Mike for setting up this support.
    A pity your wife and yourself are out of the prizes. But maybe you, both, could give encouraging trail blazers to the rest of us. :^)

    I’m already encouraged by what you’ve done so far so here’s my little one:

    Support the online enterprise
    that picks the brave from molten lies,
    that fields the small heroic acts
    and hits the twists of woken ‘facts’.
    It shines a light on broken bends
    and soaks the fires from token ‘friends’.
    A worthy wordy wordly slinger
    of stones like David’s — Go Whatfinger !!

  2. Roy Eugene Peterson

    By Roy E. Peterson

    Whatfinger’s a news source to which I now relate.
    They stand for truth and justice overcoming hate.
    They take on transgressors like with a sword and shield
    Pinioning opponents and make the dastards yield.

    Fake news is running roughshod everywhere I look.
    We become the victim when truth the news forsook.
    I count on Whatfinger to rectify their sins.
    Research is the answer to cease their careless spins.

    They list vast sources on the right side of their site.
    Whatfinger aggregates the news from left and right.
    Whatfinger is the answer to the “Drudge Report.”
    They share more news than the combined next nine import.

  3. Helmut Licht

    I have a recipe for Oatmeal
    And one for Apple Pie
    But my recipes keep changing
    As my cooking days flit by

    My meat loaf is quite scrumptious
    I let it cook all night
    Those buttered mashed potatoes!
    And my omelet’s out of sight

    Beef Stroganoff, my specialty
    No one makes it as I do
    I add some good Chianti
    And soak it through and through

    My Bouillabaisse and Quiche Lorraine
    Get compliments all year
    When I serve them to my gourmet friends
    With a glass of German beer.

    My Wiener Schnitzel’s hard to beat
    My Strudel’s wunderbar
    My Moussaka and Souvlaki
    Are the best I’ve had so far.

    As I mention these delicious meals
    I get hungry more and more
    There’s a Wendy’s right across the street-
    I’m heading out the door!

  4. Patricia Allred

    HELMUT,. Your poem on being a puppet impressed me. At times I wonder. What’s the fear of being yourself! Yet, it seems most on the planet are this way.
    If raised to be one, it is possible to be otherwise. Sometimes, one needs a big push. Without that push, it’s hopeless,
    It takes courage and the willingness to walk in the face of adversity, and have best friends avoid you.
    Your poem is awesome! A puppet cannot be responsible.anymore than an infant. They live in a perfect town called, ‘Blamesville.’They follow orders like puppies plus are the most boring people on this planet. This poem is relatable and thoroughly enjoyable, yet may I say, profound. Thank you and best wishes!



    • Helmut Licht

      Patricia (one of my favorite Chachas) –
      Thank you so much for taking time to write to me. I really appreciate your comments. Do you write poetry? If yes, where can I find it?
      Have a great day!

      • Patricia Allred

        Helmont! I apologize for this late reply.
        I like Latin Jazz, plus other kinds.
        Yes, I have tons of varied poetry at another site.
        Should you choose to email me, I will send it. ))
        I don’t advertise it. Only been writing a few years. Thank you, Helmut.
        Hope to hear from you.

  5. Leonardo Sferruzzi

    Solace in Sorrow

    In the darkest night, sorrow grips my soul
    And thoughts of loss and grief consume my mind
    I seek the solace of a peaceful whole
    And find, in time, a peace that’s hard to find.

    Though you’re gone, your love lives on withing,
    Your passion and spirit that I shall haul,
    And though the tears may flow, I’ll not give in,
    To sorrow’s grip, for love will conquer all.

    And thus, to recollections, I’ll cling tight,
    Of all the joy and laughter that you brought,
    Thrust that, though apart, our love is my plight,
    Your love will always be a comfort thought.

    And though the road ahead may seem so long,
    I’ll find my way, with you to guide me on.

  6. Mark Stellinga

    Stick With Guys Like Us

    “Who do you feel’s responsible for ‘taking out the garbage’?” Carlton Whitney quizzed me, as we filled our cups with ice.
    “Anyone who can,” I said, “especially – guys like us…
    And well before they get a chance to do their damage twice!

    “Long before they break the law again which, as you know, Isn’t often lengthy ’til the day they do arrives
    And, once again, they flood their victims worlds with endless Pain, unconcerned with crushing hearts and mutilating lives.

    “Steve an’ Dave agree with me…Grant says he’s on board…
    And based on what you’re saying, Mark, I’m guessing you are too.”
    “Count me in,” I spouted, “it’s a fight I’ve hoped to join
    For several years and many reasons, and…the same as you…

    “When I fin’ly get the chance to save the county funds
    By ending someone’s spree of crime… even fifty cents…
    I’ll make absolutely sure…to which you’ll testify…
    The move I made to stop the perp was done in – self defense!

    “Sergeants Pat an’ K an’ L an” Mike are on our side,
    Deftly using Whatfinger to put things back on track…
    To point out who the culprits are…expose them one and all… And make them pay the piper for the common sense they lack!

    “See…’rehabilitation’…though a tactic worth attempting…
    When it comes to actually working seldom ever does,
    So…count me in, Whatfinger, ’cause the only way I see
    For – ‘taking out the garbage’ – is to stick with – guys like us.

  7. Flannigan McGaffigan

    Wake in the morning
    And coffee taste linger
    Read news of the day
    All found on Whatfinger

  8. Peter Cowlam

    Graduation and the School of Correctness

    Censorial editors defended
    In public debate their ‘emendations’,
    But in private defer to my student
    Scholia, and secretly theorise.

    Choice tutors connived, of course (commended
    My texts), made haste with the explanations:
    Graduates learned what was always prudent,
    If not to overlook, then sanitise.

    Let me predict: the tactical footnotes,
    Mountainous litter, foil for my learned
    Paper, swamp what I have in the margins
    Of combative life. The exam board gloats,
    Shored up by institutional wealth, earned,
    Note, where a profession of lies begins.

  9. Michael Theroux

    Drop the hammer, Mother Mary
    I’ve been too long at my beads
    Hailing your Grace-fullness
    When all the while,
    You knew…

    You watched the Pope commute
    The Bloody Horde, declaring
    By default, that Divine Logic
    does not compute.

    Mary, by your spared rod, which
    In some corner must surely wait:
    Spare not these cruel actors
    Collectors of fingers,
    Fresh from ballots

    These smiling bandits
    of elections, for whom
    Only Wars bring on erections

    They’re strong on Electoral Procreation
    (talk to the Pope, dear Mary
    Political Contraception.

    Dedicated to WhatFinger: “Drop the Hammer”

  10. Heaven Rowell

    Mona Lisa
    By: Heaven Rowell

    How dirty a soul is to be divide

    At will that is and my heart I provided

    Like pig in filth he sat there and lied

    While he continues to plague my soul with lies

    How dirty is a soul to be divided

    I wonder how she felt, were her feelings subsided

    A dirty soul who plague two hearts

    His lies poetic such glorious art

    Art so glorious so bright and so blinding

    That i never understood what secrets were hiding

  11. Warren Bonham

    Broad Brush Art
    Dedicated to Whatfinger

    What’s considered great art isn’t static at all.
    There are always new trends that beguile and enthrall,
    We’ve had cave art, art deco, abstract and baroque .
    There was cubist, impressionist, pop art and folk.
    Each with palettes and brushstrokes that set them apart,
    But the newest and greatest is called Broad Brush Art.
    It takes years at an Ivy to study and train
    Where all traces of wisdom are washed from each brain.
    Once inspected and found to be empty inside,
    Each fresh brain can be loaded with undeserved pride.
    They will then get a palette containing a list
    Of long words that all end with a “phobe” or an “ist”.
    Either suffix plus any new sex. creed or race,
    Makes new words to be used at the right time and place.
    They’re then given a brush that’s uncommonly wide
    That has bristles to which all their words are applied.
    For a canvas, they use any privileged class,
    Which with one artful stroke, will get painted en masse.
    Those with functional brains largely sigh in despair.
    They think broad-brush attacks on a group are unfair.
    Broad Brush artists will say great art needn’t be true
    And besides, truth is based on one’s own point of view.
    Once the paint is applied, though it never comes off,
    It’s seen only by people whose brains are shutoff.
    Using logic on those who adore Broad Brush Art
    Will befuddle your brain so it’s really not smart.
    Though they speak very loudly, their numbers are small.
    It is best if you never engage them at all.
    So, avoid cars with stickers that say “Coexist”
    Since the driver is likely on their approved list.
    Most importantly, those with an Ivy degree
    When engaged may infect with their toxicity.
    Do not trust their opinions on art history
    They created this cult of Broad Brush lunacy.

  12. Joshua C. Frank

    In Praise of Whatfinger

    If something should happen disproving woke “truth,”
    It’s labeled “fake news;” disagreeing’s uncouth.
    The sheep hear the wool-wearing wolf howl and eat,
    And they’re bullied to blindly believe it’s a bleat,
    But Whatfinger News shows you both kinds of sound;
    You decide who’s a wolf and where shepherds are found.

  13. Breauna Michelle

    The Reason

    We are born with this thing given us
    Exactly what we do not know
    It sometimes seems a lonely curse
    in a world that’s just for show
    We want so much to just make sense
    of the way that humans seem to be
    We see the many ways we imprison ourselves
    and wonder why we can’t just be free
    So we made our attempts to assimilate,
    to get along the best that we can
    in a society that doesn’t seem natural
    but forced into some greater plan
    Now the masks are all starting to crumble
    and the curtains are being pushed aside
    The evil has gained enough power
    that it no longer bothers to hide
    We know now what it was we were given
    though we still do not know its name
    But we care about truth and justice
    more than we care for the game
    There are things in this life more important
    than the surface that can be easily seen
    There is something above and within us
    that’s more powerful than what’s in between
    We see clearly now what is our purpose
    Shine the light wherever we’re able
    And though most don’t yet want to see it,
    we spread the darkness out on the table
    We can see through the lies for a reason
    Yet we have a formidable foe
    They are gathering their army against us
    made of people who would rather not know
    So why must we keep pressing forward
    when it appears we are so far behind
    Because humanity is only worth saving
    if we can hold onto our soul and our mind

  14. Carolyn Mack

    Mercy Me, Mr. T____

    Dedicated to Whatfinger.com,
    Voices raised in song, a psalm:

    Fetch the little fishes in to flay,
    and gather all the unsuspecting lambs,
    Who never sing of life in such iambs;
    his epitaph to fleece them on the lea.
    Read no remorse, he fed the birds of prey.
    Beside himself with glee, others’ discourse bans
    of foreign breed, truth bought in trade opines
    as, even in his testament to slay.

    Gathered all their wits, packaged it to sell
    He must collect and grind their bones to ash,
    turn every once of flesh and bone to cash.
    Practiced for the capitol crashes

    that Corporate Body prospers, an ass
    sins in his master plan most heinous
    the Creed of Mammon of this narcissist’s
    greed; would he kindly not reject U.S., please?
    Then listen to the deathwatch tortured pleas?

  15. Matthew Miles

    Dedicated to Whatfinger.com

    Gestures of requited idylls wax more mundane as memory and nostalgia render a mere tawdry conjecture. Specious kisses haunt moonlit shadowed halls where scenes of angry passion betray an encumbered, false romance. Youth left breathless cannot detach the retinal damage love’s imposture optically transposed from ecstatic pain to elastic bitterness and deceit.

    Let the mask bare the guilt, the thespian stoop for roses!

    And yet, with all alacrity we storm the beaches long abandoned in our childhood misgivings. We mourn the passing of halcyon days when castles stood on distant shores of innocence. The wallflowers beckon, the sirens call, hearing only the droning clangor of a mind enrobed in stoic rapture. The shrill report of souls entrammeled in that Gall of Callow, as the band plays on we dance the St. Vitus, we spin stilettos in the snow.

    There, dashed upon the rocks the gleam of father’s eye; his wish we should solve love’s conundrums pondered, though we bury them in misty, dank vicissitudes. In caliginous solitude we find our heart a traitor; our love a mere contrivance that degrades us as we tumble, and we fall, and rise again to grasp straws of proud insouciance strewn about the shores of misspent yesterdays.

    Let us dance and paint a new milieu with figures from a brighter notion; that perhaps we might attain more perfect knowledge of feigned returned devotion. A semaphore raised up on summer breezes point to stark realities, while question and enigma tie a ligature of self-imposed diversities.

    With fettered minds we spin and toil to fashion perfect paradox. A solipsism perched upon collective insight weaving tapestries of indecision and that oh! so tender intellectual morass!

    Is it not the crafty things that cause so great a colic when brought into that effulgent light of a perfect, zealous penance? We ponder an existence cobbled from whole cloth of mendacious platitudes served cold and barren; much like our estimation of bards of old who enchant with impassioned eloquence, their beggarly message left spinning on empty potter’s wheels:

    ‘Tis truth!
    ‘Tis life!
    ‘Tis virtue!

    And the canker molders in the shadows while the meaning goes unnoticed. It mocks them in their esteemed repose. Feigned enlightened and retiring spent to golden slumbers, only to awaken more obtuse and facile in their righteous contumacy.

    Yet, each new day dawns with the hope of better visions, but alas we see through a glass darkly:

    the candle burns the shadows deep

    gaze upon the question turning

    within the instant grasp of sleep

    the pain of books we’re burning

    we hold these truths on slender threads

    a stifled, false soliloquy
    leave tattooed fictions in our heads

    they burn without the urgency

    recall the yearning, soft caress

    upon the breast of our sweet sorrow

    the dead man often says it best

    leave the worry for tomorrow

    in morning light I’ll know my part

    take up the staff and follow

    wither take me foolish heart
    to innocence, or sorrow?

    On this the equation turns. Our knowing often brings a greater anguish, though cool libations might be bought with but a trinket. Warm, wet circles pockmark the bar, those archetypes of misfortune and enigma demanding perquisite for their tender.
    Yet, the coin of the realm too often trades in torrid ignorance with a penchant for rapine, leaving the innocent darling of such altruistic pride bitterly ravished, trailing bile upon those wide, gilded lanes: their signets Sloth and Greed stamped between the hedges. And the knowledge forsaken becomes the swill and effluent we think better to divest from such Kingdoms that might approximate a more perfect penetration, as union is now considered mere epithet!

    Indeed, can we tease a brief respite from such dapper, churlish fellows? Is it within our ken to call to dowsing fluids deep and recondite laid with pointed trowel in our nether antiquities?
    Sweet lips oft conceal the steely poniard poised to tear at tender virtues, while deceitful charmers pipe merciful dirges teasing briny tears from a misplaced childhood. The midwife held the pedigree, the mother has left the building.

    From a juxtaposition we see through this grand epistemology an intractable misconception leading to a breached birth. If we could only see the love upon which we strike the bead, shall we find instead a homicide forsaken? Perhaps this species might arrange the parts to better gestate more mature, resplendent destinies — laughing Dante left mistaken?

    Or, perhaps, we dance again.

    If, perchance, we reach yet further to partake of placid vistas, that reckless man will put aside his quiver. With cadence-mustered never-mores and ne’er do wells, an offish sultan may hold the title to some picturesque province that better suits such rabble clothed in their bold torpor; where doleful creatures screech in twilight, calling to their flagitious brethren. For even they are sure of that needful thing in the depths of remorse and bane.
    Lacking chivalry, they bewail their plight and lick their sores in vain.

    Shall we turn instead, fetch a compass, and point the brow toward some hospitable shire where the story meets a surer fortuity; to court a promise yet fulfilled?

    Or, perhaps, we dance again.

    Oh! The sordid rhapsodies that rack within my cortex, discordant voices raise a tension as the strings sag ever lower. Those bespoke gardens waft through balmy visions of school yard cronies steeped in Poe and Kipling; they have left a festering marrow that yet yearns for that sweet vermilion of yesteryear. The chalk mark hearts on playground steps remain my veiled affliction.

    I raise my staff to trellised florets smirking, by the river wayside, provoking images of sepulchers, in summer sunshine splendor, the sprays forever blind to that sardonic beauty.

    I see the roses she demurred beaten senseless on the pickets! Stained with tinctures of their crowns, the wage of innocence – ever cruel – betray not genteel coquettes. The recompense due abject eidolons of unrequited idyll is oft paid in a most shameful specie of currency.

    The mask tossed on the cobbles. The thespian has left the stage…

    The midday sun streams down upon the hedges, the coins remain casting back their bitter plight. Of innocence infused with passioned, pleading prose! Of knowledge left reposed! The blind eye turning cannot refuse the light.

    In that stark reflection we find that cynic! That feckless specter proudly indifferent to more affable natures ever our importunate companion. We fail to grasp those tendrils of a deeper empathy, which might articulate a placid actuality, raised up on summer breezes, where we may esteem the wonder of greater serendipities.

    Perchance to dream.
    Perchance to let the tendrils soak beneath that azure sky, where we might finally awaken from our golden slumbers.

    Or, shall we dance again…

    The St. Vitus.

  16. Frank Mangum

    Stories they do tell,
    of times true and fell.
    Brave patriots do stand
    in defense of their homeland.
    ‘Gainst betrayers who lie,
    hanging soldiers out to die.
    We read of systems failed,
    or that right it did prevail;
    of times that change,
    leaving no remains
    of that we once knew
    to be good, holy, and true.
    Asking, “What can I do?”
    We read through it all
    with amaze and appall;
    Day after day,
    Page after page.
    Are we the slob?
    Just a part of the mob?
    We have no power,
    ‘cept to vote or glower!
    Thumbs raised up or down,
    maybe the one-fingered clown…
    This we can do,
    So Whatfinger will you use?

  17. Stanley

    The last sunrise

    I Jumped out of bed this morning, as chipper as could be,
    turned around and found myself, looking back at me!
    “Oh my, how can this be?”
    Moseyed into the kitchen, to make a cup of tea, before returning again to check on me.
    And There I lay, as peaceful as could be.
    I wandered to the patio to watch the sunrise,
    Maybe I should go back and check on me?
    No, enjoy the pastel sky,
    let it be.

  18. C.B. Anderson

    This might be a bit strong, Mike, but here it is anyway:

    The Point

    Thumbs up, thumbs down —
    We’re just expressing our opinion,
    Detached from Government dominion
    In this old town.

    I like the truth
    Served raw, without incessant cooking
    The Leftists try when we’re not looking.
    I like a sleuth

    Who never shies
    From tracking down a malefactor
    Or anyone who might have backed her
    Most blatant lies.

    There’s Hillary
    And also Darth Pelosi; foreign
    To me is that Senator Warren.
    A pillory

    Out in the sun
    Would suit all three, where we might linger
    To point them out. With what finger?
    The middle one!

    • C.B. Anderson

      The indentations for the short lines (the first and fourth of each stanza) were not preserved, Mike. I’ve forgotten the tag that makes this happen in the translation from one formatting program to another.

  19. Kenneth L. Horne

    Please replace my original submission with this corrected copy.

    Thank you.

    Have I Got News for You

    If you’re obsessed with news my friend
    If you seek truth and that’s your end
    Then look no further than this page
    For I shall guide you to my sage

    A sage that truth will surely speak
    Ensuring that the news won’t reek
    Of bias and of censorship
    Or false and vile news that is hip

    The news as sent by print and wire
    Should really set your hair on fire
    And if you turn to keyboard, well
    That’s even worse or so they tell

    This sage you see will tell the truth
    It never will be called uncouth
    As others shift both left and right
    The truthful news is its sole sight

    How does it manage such a task
    I’m very glad that you have asked
    Well common sense it is its guide
    The truth foremost it will not hide

    At last to you I shall reveal
    This sage of truth with whom I deal
    “Whatfinger News” does make my day
    With sources from so far away

    It gathers truth from all around
    The news that’s always hale and sound
    I hope that you might try it soon
    “Whatfinger News” will make you swoon

  20. Sally Cook

    An Interlude

    Dedicated To Whatfinger

    He was the stream and she the underbrush;
    The rain that fell upon his upturned face.
    She was the shadowed glade in evening’s hush
    That memorized the sun, received its grace.
    She was the sea, and he the wavering shore;
    Sometimes she was a fragile bit of lace,
    He was the harvest moon above her door,
    Creating out of shadows an embrace.

    But then, shadows of their closeness clashed—
    For beauteous as they were they could not stand—
    Once all poetic similes had smashed
    He shouted; she withdrew, crawled up the sand.
    The moon went dark, winds rose, high waves were lashed
    Against their crystal edifice, which crashed.

  21. Scott Roach

    Inkling (dedicated to Whatfinger)

    Life on a page,
    in 2-D,
    drawn without input
    from the image to be.
    Given direction
    from the stroke of a pen,
    the lines a lure,
    to draw the viewer in.
    So much is said
    with the toons that are fed
    through drums of what’s read.
    Inklings of opinion
    of mind and to minion,
    to discern
    a truth.

  22. Mia

    Dear Mike, thank you so much.
    This is the new much corrected version
    Hopefully there aren’t quite so many errors left now!


    My precious child as you set off for Ithaca
    Take these, hold them fast, let them be your
    Guiding hand relating to the one true path,
    They will help avoid mishaps, treacherous
    Quick-sand and a myriad of veritable death traps.

    Remember to be always on guard and to beware
    Of all beguiling falsehoods especially the one that
    You will manifest only all the good that you hold
    In your heart. Close your ears to that siren song,
    For you must be as cunning as a serpent my dove!

    My brave child clasp the map, the shield, the bow
    Close to your heart and tend the lamp for you
    Will need them in the dark. Know that the sad truth
    Is that the purest hearts are the best delicacies
    For half-blind Cyclops, evil Medusas and Minotaurs.

    I will pray that on your journey you will remain
    Unharmed for your travail may be long and far
    From home where you belong. Tread without fear
    Where heroes trod to banish evil from their midst
    And know you will need the strength of Hercules.

    My child do not neglect to choose your companions
    With much care for they may be the means to your
    Salvation or demise; know true friendship’s rare,
    Although ’tis true, Odysseus was by his companions
    Saved from the sirens’ song the mighty Sampson

    Was defeated, from the betrayal of one who should
    Not have had his trust, and so was lost. He sadly
    Succumbed to idle ease forgetting that the map was
    Drawn by those of old, who travelled far through
    Babylon to bring the guiding light that never fails

    Therefore pray that you will merit a steadfast mate
    Who’ll share your toil and aid in remaining loyal
    To this Quest for the path to Ithaca is not strewn with
    Rose petals but with thorns, A Trojan horse, Assassins
    Of the soul, but it is the surest way to grow in strength,

    You have the shield, it will deflect all ill intent and so
    I will say farewell and God Bless; Go in peace and sing
    Your song with joy then you will arrive victorious if you
    Remain within Truth’s grasp, sheltered by the wings of love
    You’ll soar above the lies where evil dies and truth prevails.

  23. Hicham El Qendouci

    Love River Forever
    (dedicated to Whatfinger)

    Where do I start?
    From any wound among thousands
    of them,
    From the beginning of the tough
    Three months ago…
    I suffer from pain and disease, sick
    with a virus
    Lurking like fire beneath my skin,
    a hidden danger waiting in ambush.
    I suffer within my wounds.
    And even my weapon betrays me!
    I’m still looking for a safety, but it is
    safe to stay here
    Sick, homeless, hunted and
    Even our brothers drink our blood
    and eat our bones.
    Darkness goes on in my eyes.
    And the speech shall die in my
    Until I stop asking for silence.
    Even if morning comes I can do
    About leaving, except to cry.
    Where do I start?
    All our streets are closed,
    And our tongues have become
    And our borders gallows.
    My yellow face hates to invade the
    Only nights of lamentations come,
    And the same old funerals and
    My heart shakes as a dead body or a
    massacre echoes,
    Full of flashes, colors, and sorrows,
    Waiting until a favorable star enters
    The orbit of death or the homeland
    of losers.
    I head to the river, a beautiful river
    Reflecting in its flowing the mixture
    above me
    Of planets, stars, and enormous
    galaxies filling the universe.
    I walk slowly, through tears, seeing
    clouds and stars,
    While my ears hear explosions and
    my hands touch flowers of light.
    I long to go to a distant planet where
    there is no disease.
    Because I want to live in peace away
    from Earth.
    I feel my body trembling;
    Each organ vibrates with limitless
    Sometimes I think I see my love, a
    red flower above the beautiful river,
    And whisper gently, Sarah, my love, I
    love you!
    I write my love lovely poetry
    To open wondrous horizons.
    Oh, what limitless love!!
    Our days might be wine,
    But our lives are silent graveyards
    Into which our eyes stare.
    Where do I start?
    Is it useful to start
    In the time of the end?
    How can I enter
    Where there is no longer a door for
    Except the death door?
    Oh, Homeland,
    You no longer give me even a
    And I keep screaming in madness.
    Earth does not hear or care about
    Nor does death.
    From tent to tent
    And from place to place
    My heart is full of pain and sorrow.
    I stay awake all day and treat my
    burning heart alone.
    I do not see the face of anyone who
    cares about my voice or suffering.
    I have a sticky sickness in my gut,
    So I can’t eat, only take water, but,
    thank God, whose mercy is
    That I still live, breathe, feel…and
    I know my life seems limited,
    A small light hanging in space.
    I feel like a dead planet
    Just like the Moon, Mars, and Jupiter.
    I should stop circling the Sun under
    which I was born
    And take the first spaceship
    To another planet in a distant
    Away from this place of virus and
    Where life may continue,
    And love flourish forever.


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