Don't trample on the flower

This garden has been in a drought for a long time,
Once you could take hope from this garden,
But for a long time you stole it,
Now it is dry,
No-one is thinking about the dying flowers,
No-one is thinking about why children panic in their sleep at night,
No one asks why children cry out in their dreams,
We must ask why Australia is singing loudly for democracy in other countries,
We are survivors from the ashes of Australia's own
democratic hell,
The flames not only burned the body, but the mind too, the brain,
I wish in this land cricket and beer could be changed to love and compassion,
What kind of wine can intoxicate me so that I will forget everything?
What kind of wine is redder than blood?
I have seen blood,
My emotions were shaped from it,
I have seen my friend's blood,
It spurted and settled on my face,
His wounds opened while fighting the fire of Australian "humanity",
Which kind of red can take the blood from my mind?
I saw the child looking at the ice-cream the officer was eating,
I saw the attitude of Australia on the officer's angry red face,
He yells abuse and swears killing the emotion and innocence of the child.
We are dying for years in detention.
Don't trample on the flower,
We escape from another hell to seek refuge in the burning flames of Australian "humanity",
Ruddock, your name will live forever in the history of Australia,
Every time people read the history they will greet your memory with a swear word,
I wish you could show your real face,
The one that you hide inside the mask of religion and policy,
Show us your real role,
You are not an actor.
Don't trample on the flower,
For a long time this garden has been in drought,
My heart is crying blood from the wounds and pain "humanity" inflicted,
There are some eyes crying blood in the garden,
Waiting for the rain of kindness,
The mothers sleep in the garden,
Feeding the babies water with their tears,
Hands hang from the fence,
Blood is the only view on the landscape,
Half-dead people wallow in the officer's hands,
Cries and sobs are all that is heard,
Don't trample on the flowers,
You didn't let any life exist in this garden,
Oh my friend who reads this poem, don't hide your
tears,
Let it rain,
Rain on the tired body in this garden,
Your tears are the hope for the rain of love,
In the flames and hell of Australian "humanity",
Don't trample on the flower,
This garden has been in a drought for a long time,
Once you could take hope from this garden,
But for a long time you stole it,
Now it is dry,
We are dying,
Just barely able to breathe.

BY MOHSEN SOLTANI ZAND

[The writer spent four years in an Australian detention centre.]

From Green Left Weekly, May 28, 2003.
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