They’re fighting in Fallujah,
again: the rattle of the heavy
caliber stuff, the whine
of rockets, the cries of
children once more flood
the night, once more blood
marks the trail. Religion
and oil and imperialism
pass out the ammunition,
urging on the firefight,
cheering each new bomb
blast, saluting the dead
with statues and ceremony.
Salvation is on the march,
they promise, while far
away peace is locked down,
unattended and struggling,
in dark rooms of the past.
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