I can’t compete with these young poets
rising from the ashes of their home,
who’ve seen the worst that hate can bring
and forced to flee, to wait, to roam.
They speak so clearly of their loss
and that of others who escaped
the destruction of a world
centuries of work had shaped.
You need to hear their words to understand
the meaning of despair, distress
and see that something must be done
to clear up this bloody mess.
I can only sit here on the sidelines
and try to let my colours show,
to shout support, to scream dissent,
to make sure other people know.