Poetry

Do not talk of unhealing wounds, 
talk of the weapons. 
Talk of the hands which used the arms 
and talk of the brain which pressed the trigger. 
 
Violence was primitive 
but the cruel eyes had a new glint, 
At night they ransacked, stamped and burned 
the relics. 
 
Is it the retrovirus of a new menace 
dreaming the feast of thousands of corpses 
choking the drains? 
 
Why are we heading for the slaughter 
of earth, pure vengeance 
to turn the sun gloomy and black? 
 
This time the river will turn aside and not meet 
the ocean. 
It will spread out in the parched land of thirst 
and die for a cause.