outside there is little left to see

but the dust of destruction,

a torn canvas of abandoned hope

etched in the dried blood of the

dead and dying and the next-in-line,

a taxonomy of wasted life, here

where no birds fly, a land littered

with the debris of its treasures,

souvenirs of senseless hate,

sacrificial remnants of generations

atop the scorched earth, echoing 

a million mother's despairing cries 

that merge with the voices of 

barefooted orphans, 

a coke can for a football

and Messi on their minds, 

the innocents of an uncivil war.