Sonnet for a Silver Bullet
Decades after my mother dragged me forth,
To cast her vote against the National Front.
Now flags of St George wave, proud and bold,
Yet hidden roots obscure the tales of old.
The widow’s son gave up their only cow
To some requesting ghost, as stories tell.
His mother left him, furious in woe,
Forsaken for the gift he gave Al-Khader.
From Genoa, the cross once sailed afar,
But after Hitler, what can one desire?
A silver bullet waits to end this scar,
To pierce ideology that haunts and multiplies.
No myth, no root, no echo left to mar,
To end this nationalist, repeating fire.
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