Please do not aim me, a rifle wriggles and shivers.
Shut up! Yells the hand. I have to shoot those kids.
But they are still very young! Look at their adolescent smiles
and they demand nothing but your welfare too.
Don't you often curse your small salary, your limited
opportunities, that you have to trot here and there
picking a fistful of rice?

Do not aim me, the rifle wails.
Shut up! This is not a personal problem, the hand scolds.
This is a political problem. One or two lives
have to be sacrificed.
But this isn't about numbers, not about one or two
but about a mother lamenting her loss,
about the termination of someone's life
about the discontinuity of someone's future. About the rights of...
Shut up, you piece of equipment! You're just a tool

so don't argue. Arguments are for politicians in the councils.
But those politicians are only thinking about themselves! The rifle replies.
They never care about you, about them,
or about the poor and the oppressed.
They care for nothing other than their own interests.
Bang! The horrific sound startles the rifle. Nooooo......!!!
Bang! ...bang! ...bang! ...bang!
It's done... the hand murmurs. This is insane! The rifle cries.
I don't know, whispers the hand... I don't know... I'm tired.
I just want to go home and have a rest. Hopefully my wife
and my children are safe back home.

Then the rifle transforms itself into rain. Endlessly pouring
its tears.

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono