The flesh is churned up with the mud,
remains of walls and roofs are painted with their blood,
the guns are doing all the talking,
taking each one made to suffer or to perish
as hostages for history to cherish.

The obscene ritual of reports
from these butchers’ blocks, where sadists hold their sports,
make us accomplices to slaughter
of children, women, men who do the same as us,
if our neighbours’ fear had burst like pus.

The mortars spit out vicious hate,
announcing that for dozens more it’s now too late
to ever save their son or daughter.
Are you going to sit there fumbling for some sense
while bombs hang the playground on the fence?

rs 17.4.93