The present

(On Christmas, I got a present from a dear friend from Finland. It was a notebook in which he put a lot of questions and sections and I am supposed to write there, poems, thoughts, about me, etc. As soon as I finish it, I'll send it back to him. He will have access to a lot of things no one else will, but he let me publish the eventual "good" poems I write there so that the world can also know it. This is the first one)

The boy is crying
but it's not due to teargas
He sees the hope in their eyes
The fear in the cops' eyes
He sees blood oozing on
foreheads
Mother screaming, yelling, not my son
not my
son
He sees it on tv and he
is not sure. They are carrying
a black guy, is he dead?
Then it would just be anywhere
dans les rues, they yell. It's
68 for sure, France.
We have a dream, and it's
the States now and Mr. King Jr.
The boy has been shot before. The
bullets never reached him. But
what about minefields? Radars?
Now we don't have wars, you were not
drafted, were you, boy?
He wants to throw flowers
and open books
but they shut him up with bombs and
laws and shields and laser guns.
You have to run boy!
The shock troop is merciless
they have always been
Paris, Seattle, University of Sao Paulo, Beijing
name a place in this earth and
there you'll find repression.
Let's fight for freedom?
they have been doing it since the
French revolution, and way before, and ever since.
Let's not get philosophical, boy,
and ask ourselves in the fashion of a good old
post-strucutralist
what freedom is. The question
should be
              where. Where is it?
And it, here, means freedom but
you  can also think of hope.