How does one’s imagination comprehend the death rattle of a child?
The slumped shoulders of a mother riled.
To what purpose does the ethnic cleansing rapist believe,
that spilling his seed will ease his grief?
Bloody hands drag babies into conscription,
only to die by the same child’s conniption.
Rivers of blood and tears flow into wounds of the innocent.
Into sores inflicted by those fearful for their lives.
Many of those afflicted are or were mothers and wives.
There is no joy.
There is no hope,
And no thought of a future,
only a desperate need to find refuge from death or the suture.
No nation is without guilt.
Even the United Nations is looking like a patchwork quilt,
splattered with blood from head to toe,
and dumbfounded as to how to combat such a foe.
Women trudge on, boys grow up, and babies are born.
Maybe evil men somewhere, someday;
will count their losses and finally access,
that there is no joy unless there is rest.
bevsangle 