VictimsRefugees in their own homes shot and shelled.Young men and women in battle fatigues,Their own lives imperilled by the intriguesAnd ambitions of those who feel impelled,By destiny or profit, to fabricateSelf-serving, spurious justification,Such gold braided vain glorificationOf leaders in a belligerent state.War’s irony is its inanity,The crass and brutal way it insistsIn 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.
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