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At the foot of Crosses

For months now,
where you live,
where I live,
it is already Good Friday:
When will it end,
The long agony of the peoples,
The massacre of innocents?

Every day is a lottery.
Will we still be alive
This evening, tomorrow?
Fear in our gut,
facing our daily lot:
bombs and mines.

Crowds in their thousands,
men, women, children,
hunted, exhausted,
stripped of everything,
fleeing to nowhere
because everywhere is closed to them.

People embark by the hundreds,
by the thousands,
on an exhausting voyage
that for many
ends in the depths of the sea.
Or of a prison.

Forgotten,
their life counts
for so little.
Walled in,
the rich close themselves up
in their comfort.

Today,
at the foot of the Cross,
there is nothing left but
suffering,
silence
and tears.