A guilt-stricken trunk
Painting transparent glue to grip
Onto its dying branch
Every stifling second.
Now that the glue has dried and the mirage embedded
The terminally-ill branches thought they were born again
Fed with propaganda
They say I had my meal.
You who see and think bravely
Is one stalwart branch
Sensitive to dictators’ glue
Smart enough to not be killed
In the meaning producers
The hearts and brains in motion
Human rights activists
Are stalwart branches on their own
The saws are always coming after them
Before anything else.