There is this trident,
piercing an embryo.
Around it,
the clamour
of a maddening crowd.
And beneath the shouting,
a little cry, a life unborn.
They shout
with all their patriotic frenzy,
their flags raised high,
their anger raised higher.
And there, that face,
with the tiny moustache,
speaking of humanity,
while a bayonet
rests against the heart
of those who speak of hope.
The trident holds the unborn.
The crowd holds its flags.
And somewhere between them,
humanity
is
still
trying
to be
born.