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Why Poetry

“Why do you write your poems?” he asked.
I had to think about it for a while.
To say “Because I must” would not suffice.
“To repair the world” I ventured,“I try to restore things,”
“What things,” he sneered.
“Beauty, and love and hope, all that is good,
all that is not touched by war and terror and hate.”
He seized my arm. “What is good? What does it mean?”
“Don’t ask me about meaning,” I sighed, shaking him off.
“I can’t see any, Only wreckage, famine, madness.
my poems are a barrier.” I looked at him.
“Won’t you write a poem?” I asked “Won’t you try?
it might help. Soon it could be too late. After all,
while people are writing poems
they are not carrying weapons.”
“You are a deluded fool,” He told me.
In the next moment the bomb exploded.