Meditation in the Outbreak of War

 Blue
is the colour of
their skins and
their deserts weave
a billow of tears an
oasis of blood and
I weep of the spears
stabbed into their flesh
by the soldiers of
The Great Country
a slaughter of yearlings
the Campaign of Subversion
the voice of
the False Prophet

Look
the children dream of
locusts in the night and
they lose their teeth to
the yellow cakes of the
valley, their skins to
the stellar winds and the
frangible stars, they will
cry because of the pain
because of the rumour
of their faecal birth
of the corpses of the
women of the plains

Look to the sky and imagine, your soul rests upon the waters of a meandering river, relax your soul and feel the tired earth’s axis of symmetry, align yourself to meet the solar wind, to ease the migration of your soul, there is a country hidden impenetrable by the armour-piercing bullets of your enemy, where the locusts cannot navigate, where your children will laugh again