Power And Children

it does not know how to whistle anymore
that which a mother does when she does not know
when father arrives
during the domestic wars among brothers of the land

it is arrogant and it does not know reason
it kills and hurries to hide its sins
murder and betrayal

without blinking eyes without trembling hands
there is only the constant triggering

bullets flow like water from the rocks
on such sounds of horror
the faces of men are shaped
the hands of children
fragile as a rose
disappear

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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