The Poet

Our Village’s finest sanctuary lies crushed under your boots.
Your new world order brought us:
Babies rotting under the sun
With gaping holes in the back of their heads.
Breasts, which once suckled infants of beauty,
Now quiver with sweet lips frozen in perpetual agony.
Scorched babies forever shriveled and gnarled in dismay.

Your new world order brought us:
Flower girls with faces blown off.
Market flowers scattered with arms, a leg,
A head with no feet.
Corpses swollen in the sun, whose only crime
Is that they once lived.
Doctors, patients, hospitals all blown apart.
Death to all, mother, father, children.
Spare none.

You, strutting viper, sneak lions among lambs;
Then as Pontius Pilate, you wipe your hands in innocent glee.