In Memoriam: Hillel, the Elder, and Bertolt Brecht

I peel a pomegranate,
Each aril a red scar,
My home is overrun,
The peril is not far.

A cold breeze blows this autumn,
The ploughman will not plant,
A harsh winter looms ahead,
The monsoon was aslant.

Our many friends are taken,
The best of us so far,
The jails are filling up fast,
Their doors kept ajar.

Reading is a sin now,
Thinking is crime,
Unless you self-censor,
Or with them only chime.

It feels like Russian Roulette,
For who shall go next?
Are you popular enough?
Do you have the right context?

They can tell by your name you shall bleed red,
You and all your brethren might as well be dead.
Dare you be vocal? You are in for it then,
Law is their playmate, Power knows no reason.

But, “If not now, when?
If not I then who?”
Will I write poems about trees,
When there are policemen in the woods?