the squirts of blood
or the shrill screams
palpable is the hate
engulfing like a river in spate
yet there is no one to hear
none to see,
in the masquerade of Religion
the zealots pledged, to a demonic legion?
the war that turns ugly
blind, as the sword strikes its enemy
Could it be victory that marches on the dead-
Of the young, the old, the birthing:
the life, the hope, the dawn; sinking instead
its just terror that reigns,
the land of the inhuman, the holiness feigns?
as a child peeks out, from behind those shutters
the broken shafts of light that shudder
what seed can grow in those dark shadows
what faith can tow its fate away from the deathly gallows?
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