You sell out—your eyes’ alertness, the radiance of your hands. You knead the dough of the bread of life, yet never taste a slice. You are a slave working in your great freedom. You are free with the freedom to suffer hell to make Croesus rich. As soon as you’re born work and worry, Windmills of lies are planted in your head. You hold your head in your hands in your great freedom. You are free in your freedom of conscience! You are decapitated. Your arms loll at your sides. You wander the streets in your great freedom. You are free in your great freedom of being out of work! You love your country as your dearest love, but one day, for instance, you could sign it over to America together with your great freedom. You are free in your freedom to become its airbase. Wall Street grabs you by the scruff of your neck. One day they could send you to Korea. You could fill a pit with your great freedom. You are free with the freedom of being the unknown soldier. You say you should live like a human being, Not a tool, a number, a means to an end. They clap on the handcuffs in your great freedom. You are free in your freedom to be arrested, go to prison, even be hanged. In your life there are no iron, bamboo or lace curtains. There’s no need to choose freedom: you are free. This freedom is a sad thing beneath the stars. frontline.in/world-affairs/capital-and-conflict-in-turkey/article4803983.ece?homepage=true
Posted on: Sun, 23 Jun 2013 04:36:20 +0000
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