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by Aoife Mannix
In my revolution, there will be free ice cream,
the old will become young, trouble will be over before it’s begun.
My bombs will be hurled as lemonade
shattering laughter over walls that have crumbled before they were built.
My bullets will bounce back to where they come from,
leaving no scars, just a trail of jelly beans
that will be the new borders, eaten before there is any need for visas.
My refugees will party in the street,
dancing their music over the front page,
before coming home to balloons and streamers
and suitcases bursting with all they have lost.
My soldiers will wear only their birthday suits
and hand out presents of brand new futures that have no ties.
My politicians will be acrobats that ride horses bareback and never utter a word.
My followers will always be one step ahead of me,
setting off fireworks in nobody’s name.
In my revolution, there will be free ice cream.
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