It Makes Me Weep (The Bloodshed In Paris) Poem by Bernedita Rosinha Pinto

In the glove-box of literacy
twenty-six alphabets lie concealed
become powerful, mightier, weight-laden
when fingers clutch a pen or pencil
to write, to paint a million thoughts
bounteous words, hundred sentences
about wonder, beauty, truth, reality
setting it on a page or a book,
on a new magazine, or on a screen.
O' the intricate works of art, of mind
only the few understand,
only the few appreciate;
but if you have chosen to sketch or scribble
what hurts another's sentiments
repulse unveils a dictum of anger;
how will you then cast away their grudge?
how will you dissipate their vengeance?
God is God in all its form
be it a stone, a statue or a saint;
hurt not ever the religious feelings of any enemy
lest my brothers get slain
lest they die for jobs they did for their livelihood
for only the family sobs incessantly
irreplaceable, irreparable is their loss;
with the notion of freedom of expression,
don't do things that invite a wrath so undeserving.
O' how it makes me weep,
how it makes me wish this had not to be!