by Nick Gisburne
She strains to block the bedlam of the streets
Relentless shocks of thunder rip and pound
Her fingers crush her ears as she repeats
A sacred word to shield her from the sound
They lie, again, to claim there could be peace
Who listens? Not the bodies. Not the dead
Until this land is lost they will not cease
Till every inch of dirt has burned or bled
The war, a mask for murder, pure, obscene
Where every day the storms of hatred burst
Her years inside a cellar, seventeen
Have taught her she is infinitely cursed
They say that they must liberate her land
But this, her pain, they cannot understand
