Terrorism from every corner of the room, like the prophet said. In children’s dreams soldiers’ feet sound like rain,
on the crude corrugated iron roof. Mother’s feel it in their Milk. While their men stand up in old blue collars. Licensed and unlicensed guns from under the bed. From locked cupboards. God hovers withholding judgement. Retribution comes easy, flung with bullet force, splattering onto concrete. The sun streaked red in the morning, across the bone coloured smoke, from the flames started once the war had been won. Plumes of souls escaped like the prophet said. We watched screams on the T.V. in our makeshift fortress. We shook. We clutched tighter our convictions and bought more black-market guns.
Copyright 2002 A Head/Photo by Movidagrafica Barcelona: https://www.pexels.com/photo/burning-book-page-1474928/
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