Just how many bombs dropped o'er my head
would it take to convince me my city was dead?
What are the numbers of sinew and bone?
Of blood-bathed children (most dying alone)?
How high will I count the multitude of ways
that bodies can contort on fire swept days?
And when I have tallied the cries and the moans,
will I remember what it meant to be home?
Monday, June 14, 2010
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