Formulaic words, archaic.

 

The bombs belong to someone

but are confused,

they fall where they don’t belong.

There are sofas facing out to Sea

inside hollowed concrete silos

that once were people’s homes.

People are exchanging people for people,

some of them are missing parts,

their minds are damaged and there is data-loss.

When faces recognise each other, they cry.

They are bussed across borders.

Streets are flag lined, some people raise their fists,

some people hang their heads.

 

The floors are blood blackened, the gates still broken.

Breakfast is abandoned, unblessed.

The would-be diners are choking underground, their captors blindfold.

Seeing in the dark what they could not in light, they seem alike.

Gods are in some other universe designing Gardens and better Arks,

writing new books with empty vessels they created.

Tearing ribs from chests to form new genders.

Serpents will not be introduced to the eco-system

and apples are off the menu this time around.

 

Meanwhile, decisions are being made that were already made,

the number of people that must die before peace comes has been arranged.

Only men with important titles and none know the figure, it’s their secret.

Young men are preparing their futures for misery,

they are collecting memories that will destroy their minds

burying them deep for now that they might blossom unexpected.

Their grandchildren will not understand their anger and confusion,

they will cower through family gatherings and mutter nonsense,

terrified of shadows.

 

Somewhere in a place not yet known a child is born,

soft and warm protected by its loving Mother.

It will learn all this and still know nothing of it,

little enough to repeat the pain.

Generational and racial trauma embedded in its DNA.

A book is being written now about its life,

only the dates and names need be changed,

 

You know the story.