Dear Man with a black flag,

May you throw up from the stench of formidable goodness in this world.

May you be haunted by a nightmare of little girls in their dresses singing in unison the only song you have learned to like.
You will sweat profusely and will wake to an apparition of your God smiling down on you even if you haven’t taken someone else’s life yet.

May you be stricken by your last memory of pure joy
May your eyeballs turn all white so that you will lose sight of what you now believe is right.

Your hands will flail helplessly and you will wander and will not find your way in the wickedness.

And when you fall down, let it not because of the bullet from your enemy, but from a vivid memory of that very day you were born.

But if you insist on hate, may your most feared curse be upon you so that you will see that we, too, are not perfect and holy that in so many ways, we are just like you.

Teaching the young and the youth to shoot, insulating them from every beauty this world has to offer is fighting a losing battle. For in the next generation, how much pain you have inflicted will be million times more painful to you in your deathbed when you learn that one your children has lost his way to compassion.
And when you are down to the last of us, may you agree that before you pull the trigger, you will learn from him about poetry; you will allow him to guide your fingers to form musical chords with ukulele; may you beat him in the game of chess. May you allow yourself to spend time with him and learn that there are far worse environment imaginable in the books that we read. May you be surprise how you easily laugh at his silliest jokes. May you allow him to be the father you never had

Man with the black flag, our race has so much to learn.

But each thrust you make with your sword takes away our chance to say sorry.

Man with the black flag, you’ve acquired bombs and guns

And just like you, not all of us are forgiving

And so, when, once more you are ready to kill, let us fight you with the greatest weapon of all, may you be afflicted with an illusion of being one of us. An illusion you cannot shake loose that it will make you very sick, very sick you will become too weak so that we can come closer to you and scream in front of your heart, “I love you.” |


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