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He carried his gun

like it was some kind of lucky token

He had put flowers in the barrel

adorned it with lucky charms

that would protect him,

help him survive.


Monkey Heads

around his neck

would turn bullets into water,

grenades into sand,

ganja would keep him fearless, and

without pity.


They were defenceless

little more then ten years old

but old enough to rape and butcher

for Robert had the power, and for

Robert, fourteen years old

that was enough.


Folks, I may have put this one up some time ago, if so sorry.


◄ Sri Lanka Blue

In a Manger Snug and Warm ►


<Deleted User> (6484)

Sun 25th Jul 2010 17:46

Thanks Cynthia, it's a pretty sad story, everyone in it a victim of one kind or the other.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 21st Jul 2010 12:33

Your poems are merciless in the portrayal of innocence pitched against war, and so stark with physical details and national attitudes.

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