Victims
Refugees in their
own homes shot and shelled.
Young men
and women in battle fatigues,
Their own
lives imperilled by the intrigues
And
ambitions of those who feel impelled,
By destiny
or profit, to fabricate
Self-serving,
spurious justification,
Such gold
braided vain glorification
Of leaders
in a belligerent state.
War’s irony
is its inanity,
The crass
and brutal way it insists
In
transforming mere men into rapists,
To deny
women their humanity.
The world’s
changed, or so politicians claim,
But for
victims it is always the same.
D. A.
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