Soldiers and Generals have no imagination.
They do not see that bombs become cradles for children,
And their flying missiles— coffins and unmarked graves.

Can’t they see that their advance is a funeral march?
Their guns are crutches, newly minted for the battle,
Their tanks stately hearses, ready to carry the dead,
And their artillery no different than ambulances
–Rushing forward to attend the fallen.

Their cheers of victory are keening wails;
Their loud celebrations a sombre wake,
While their prayers for divine assistance
Are the Devil’s ready call to arms.

In war, guns are like flags:
Nation against Nation;
People against people.

Chaos and loss—a carnival of death.

I weep for those whose loss is absolute,
For those vanquished, or lost in rubble,
And for those forsaken enemies who
Have once more lost their minds.

October 24, 2023