Sculptures of War

Hold onto the air

And breathe in the fine fry

Of bomb blasts and thrilling shrills

Tattooing the-all angles of a once bright nation

That entrusted by bloomy villages and towns

Whose facets, as smooth as the moon’s drizzling emeralds.

Now breathe out the scent

And scrutinize the all-odors of frying

And then notice among a many

Thwarted huts and barns;

Deserted streets and avenues;

Fat bodies of famine and drought;

Destitute mums and children;

Savage kwashiorkor upon masses.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s