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.


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