Читать книгу Divide and Rule - Walid Bitar - Страница 9

This phony warrior’s armed to the teeth,

our barks and his bites all but synchronized,

the son of a bitch – I mean, of a state

that doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t love.

Dash upstairs – praise to the skies

what might fall on us if it isn’t in them,

yours no future money couldn’t buy,

or, failing that, at least destroy.

Do me this favour and, in exchange,

I’ll mask ingratitude; a disguise

overwhelms the plain truths any day.

It looks like somebody, and so do I,

most at home under another’s name –

not just an alias – in another’s thoughts,

yours for example. They irritate me

a little less than if I had had them.