Rage without outlet is the worst
when holding a gun
and seeing too well
the endless trail without brunt, 
along which i watch a thousand targets, 
as my hands shake with rage
and I see nothing
but lost smiles
and lost hands outstretched, 
and i wonder
if the president is smiling, 
if god is smiling, 
but all i know for sure
is that i am not, 
as i try to pretend
i don't know who to shoot                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem