Afternoon, overcast, windy
with occasional rain
and poems,
images of human lives
among genocide,
surviving and blown into pieces,
a head in a plastic bag,
children playing among ruins
when three children have been killed
or wounded each hour for six hundred days,
still trying to be children,
and maybe dead
by the time I see them on my screen,
as the wind bends tree branches
outside my window, no bomb
threatening to blow my peace
into pieces, scattering my flesh
to be gathered in plastic bags.
31.05.2025
Verse Poetry Poems Poem
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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