War is simple:
killing and getting killed
threat and negating threat
an exercise where life is a breath held back
sometimes never to be released,
a love story unfolding
under a terrible sky
on an exploding earth
lovers making out as best they can
under an umbrella of bullets
and debris
war is blind to the precious
baby’s breath
mother’s milk fragrance
horror at the gaping wound
even after you’ve seen ripped out limbs
war is not delicate nor delicacy
and war criminals are divested
of tenderness,
they don’t care
and no mother,
whether war-torn, bruised or poor
will gift baby to brute.
*inspired by the photograph of a Tamil woman who had fled LTTE-controlled areas handing over her new born baby to a solder in a truck (presumably before she got in herself), smiling all the while.
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