The sands stream silently with blood.
I call out, voiceless, separate from age,
Torn and drowning as beating guns rage.
I caress the bullets that enter my body, the wood
Of my soul. She, the siren within, holds
Knife to my throat, while the mujehedin
Mumble prayers to a distant Allah.
I live with the acidic taste of oil,
And my eyes burn while dying overtakes
My brothers, my fellow deserters of conscience,
Those on all sides of conflict.
Naked barbarism reigns over the world,
And my legs fail to hold, as skin peels
Rapidly away from deserts of ash,
From the harrowing fortresses of starvation
And a totalitarian grace, that laughs
While I die, sick to the core with endings.
Peter Gardner 7/11/04