Cymbals, pyres, rings and ash,
pouring ribbons stream across the brows
of dying mothers clinging to dead babes,
rampant throes of twisting hopes . . .
there is nothing to respect from bloody sands,
and where is the hand of the lord
in all this violence always void of mercy?

I had once hoped the lord would place
a few tears of mercy among the daily flood
of carnage, but this year there is nothing
for the young mothers except the worst
of torments, their babies stabbed
while they still clutched their mother’s breasts.
Who could ever see the lord in this?

I see now our gods reflect the land we inhabit . . .
and surely we would have gentler lords if this place
were not so cruel, and our strokes on each other’s flesh
would be more humane if this world
were more studious of its own creatures . . .
hacking our trail through the land of tears,
we also hack at our fellow pathfinders
that is, until you find a baby, an island of respite
in the shifting bloody sands.

Now I drop into the desert, a mouthful of grit to cry,
what god would seek to impale my baby?
The cymbals pierce my soul,
each clanging strike a memory of my son’s quiet laugh . . .
and I fear my arms will be useless forever.