This darkness grew from greed to grab the land
from branding brothers lesser than the mud
that clings to boots; when falling bombs seem planned
to murder toddlers, women and let blood
be spilled on cobblestones when every thud
may be the fated rocket, the final shell
that will rip your torso from your head
and end the life that war had turned to hell.
if though your fate is life how can you stand
beside your graves, forgive and shake their hands?
Today Laura asks us to write 10 line poems in iambic pentameter at dVerse. I have always called a poem like this a sonnetina but she gives the name ‘the Decuain’,
March 10, 2022