by Sybille Forster-Rentmeister

There he was
standing, freezing
in his jeans,
looking hostile
at the passers-by.
Pointed spikes
of hair in red
protest the wind
as not to break.
Everyone he sees
smacks of infamy,
the smell of Blass and Polo
offends his pride
in simple Ivory.
Can they not see
his protest in posture
and in gestures?
Instead they hit
with hate and coldness.
"You don't like me,
push me out.
Well, here goes:
I hate you too
and I have clout."
Windows smashed
and stolen goods
turned into chemicals.
Hope's last day arrived
and slowly died away.
Now he lies down
and doesn't stand,
a fire in his eyes:
A dream of borrowed hope,
a wish for no tomorrows.