Victims
Refugees in their own homes shot and shelled.
Young men and women in battle fatigues,
Their own lives imperilled by the intrigues
And ambitions of those who feel impelled,
By destiny or profit, to fabricate
Self-serving, spurious justification,
Such gold braided vain glorification
Of leaders in a belligerent state.
War’s irony is its inanity,
The crass and brutal way it insists
In transforming mere men into rapists,
To deny women their humanity.
The world’s changed, or so politicians claim,
But for victims it is always the same.
D. A.