We made you. Not metaphor. We flew in quietly and bent your country to a use. Your cruelty was the feature, not the fault. We looked away because the oil moved west and that was enough. When the boiler burst we performed surprise. We are good at that. And the one who needs a crowd... Not an enemy. ...an audience. The victim is the prop. The killing is the proof of how large you are. I saw this. I stepped back. Not from ignorance... from the knowledge that they chose you. Ignorance is a choice. So is who you elect. But history is patient. It waits in kitchens, in cellars, in the mouths of children who listen. A city becomes rubble. A house becomes memory. A father becomes a story told at a table. That story will travel longer than you. Best regards, the witnesses. Still here. -UpsilonA
Author’s Note
This poem reflects on the uncomfortable intersections of power, complicity, and historical memory. It explores how nations, institutions, and individuals participate—actively or passively—in cycles of violence, and how the consequences of those choices endure beyond the moment.
Ultimately, it is a reminder that witnesses, and the stories they carry, outlast those who rely on silence.




And so we look away once more. Oil, after all, is rationed now. Such unkind regards.
Great but wistful, my friend. I think we look away again…