Drunk with despair, he sets himself ablaze,
a man no longer able to pretend
his princes merited their loud self-praise.
Better the phoenix death, the fiery end.
The street explodes, first with kinfolk and friend
and soon with multitudes—the poor who bring
only their lives, only what faith will lend
against the guns. Abroad, the magpies sing
in fulsome praise of cleansing sparks, this Arab spring.

Stopped in a cab—a siren’s wail, a blaze
of bullets and his chest explodes. Pretend
who will that such be justice—no false praise
of right will quell the anguish of this end,
restore his touch to family or friend.
Raw anger long suppressed bursts out to bring
thousands to arms with what the street can lend:
a stone, a brick, a voice. The magpies sing
now with disdain—from what base class such insults spring.

• poetry