I live with poor people
who have nothing to say:
my guns are hidden in their rooms
underneath their beds
I set traps for visitors
and burrow beneath
fragile buildings
I am innocent:
I want nothing but river and sea,
and death of course: that’s only natural
I attack from the mists
because that is what I do,
and when my enemies respond,
my friends die
which is their fault,
as everyone agrees:
one day I will kill them all,
and that will be their fault too