sonata

Sonata.


A symphony of car bombs, flying fingers, a man looks
for body parts of his son, find half of a foot, wraps it in
a handkerchief, without a burial the grief will be endless.
Women will always wear black.


This ballet macabre, man are not made for intact soar
through the air, dancers try, and try again, a few seconds
wonder, it’s called art. Dame Margot and Rudolf, sailed
through the air. Magic moment, passionate our applause.


This unreal Iraq wars, there are no tall trees, new leaders
are shadowy pygmies, hiding behind walls in the green
garden, that never runs out of water for manicured lawns
and frequent showers for those who live there.


People of Iraq are not looking for democracy as it should
be an enchanted formula, water, sanitation, education, and
free of western interference is more important. A tall leader
is needed; the last one had a fatal rendezvous with a noose

How much, and loud, must people scream before they are
heard? How many must die?

This weird war motor-oil mixed with fresh blood can only
start the machinery of hate, we onlookers are so tired, we
feel not their fear- not our kin- the killing so far away, yes,
Iraq is another planet, thank God for that, and let bells toll.