Your nearsighted eyes cannot do the shooting. In response to the chinese government’s killing of pro-democracy protestors at Tiananmen Square in 1989, Liao Yiwu wrote several poems in which his anger at the state is matched by his own sense of frustration at being unable to fight back:

When I was nine, I shared my bedroom with a coffin. My father had it made for my grandmother for her seventy-third birthday and referred to it as shou mu, which means something like “longevity wood,” and seemed like a strange name for the box Grandma would be buried in.

June 4, 1989 

A massacre took place in the capital city of the People’s Republic of China. The size of it shocked the world. Nobody knows precisely how many innocent people lost their lives. The government put the number of “collateral deaths” at two hundred or less. But many Chinese believe that it was more like three thousand innocent students and residents who were slain.