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Ode to My Socks...

My friend brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two sock as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
as in
Syria,
And my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
no food,
two long sharks
sea-blue,
shot
through
by one golden thread,
dead, dead,
bomb's bomb's,
by one golden thread,
two immense gun fighter's
blackbirds,
two cannons;
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks and guns.
They were
so handsome
and
terrible
not for me
but my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two
hit men.

The moral of my
ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks.
But war and terror
are
horrible
and not worthy
the human's.
I stretched out
my feet
and hope for
Peace and
better time
for the
Human's.
We need to
find
the key.
Not my
Socks.