A dove
with bomb
tied tight
to wing
in flight.
Circles
over
projects of brick
and lack.
A Stran-
ger, peace
on streets
of win-
ter night.
One child
alone
hides from
implod-
ing black.
It’s sad
this traitor, Peace,
a hunter trained;
Borne from
old wombs
of greed
and a-
ged wine.
Would hunt to spill its mother’s breast
for gain;
And kill
its twin
before
she lives
her life.
But scream so loud Heaven will shake and wake
and scream again so Hell knows well you’re there
and rend your clothes and stand naked and wait
and see and hear if angels trumpets blare.
A lightning bolt
will burn the dove
to dust.
And traitor, Peace,
will drown
in tears
and rust.