In iron rain from rockets, limbs are torn
apart, consumed in thermobaric flares;
we hear a toddler calls for help; we mourn
as lookers-ons; we watch but do not dare
to intervene, to simply stand and ask
the teenage soldier why he must obey
and for whom he does his grizzly task
to murder infants, women, night and day.
will there later be rewards of pillage, rape
or just a pledge of going home, to meet
his girl, will he ever manage to escape
the weight of being wrong; how will he greet
himself to the eternal copper taste
forever followed, bound to guilt and traced?
Lisa hosts OLN at dVerse, at first I thought I thought I would abstain from writing today, but after some thinking, I thought I should at least try with one little sonnet.
March 3, 2022