If I could walk down your avenue just after a light rain, see the sunrise and smell the freshness of your beauty and freedom; I know I would still be in love with you. But why the smoke stacks? Why does blood trickle into street gutters? Why the uranium? Why the tanks. Why the shackles? Why fields scarred with mass graves? Why the language of another? Why the hidden tattoos of eastern myth? Why are birds scarce; their songs lost in siren’s scream? Why do your mothers bury their children? Why do schools burn in heaps like leaves in fall? Why does your guitar lay silent; your cello mute; your choirs gagged with red scarves. Why do your rivers kill fish? Why is McDonald’s still open and your restaurants rot? Why do your forests burn and hide the sky? Why are your beaches soiled with oil? Why are your churches empty? Why do your hospitals mold? Where are your people? Where is the face I long for; ache for; cry every night for?
Oh, I still love you and I always will. But I will never understand a suicide that kills everything but itself. I never will.