I step in and all I smell is concrete dust,
Windows broken, relicts of fear unspoken.
Nothing’s there except the dusty air,
A wood-brown door turned grey – signs of decay
On a wall a child has drawn with chalk
A man without a mouth, he weeps but cannot talk.
Sutured by his memory, maybe by what he saw
The scenes of agony, of grief and war.
In this dream I cannot see myself!
I walk room to room, from house to house into the
streets,
Stumbling over carcasses wherever my path leads.
Knowing this could happen anywhere, this is my future,
I don
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