There’s the slain throat of a soldier;
There’s the wild man with a dagger:
Malala lies in her own blood
in Taliban’s land.
There’s Kabul at our front door,
His crops of bombs in holy hands:
His Kandahar shapes up
even in Cameron’s land.
All mountains melt, like ice cubes
dealt a flaming hand.
Molehills melt like candles;
landslides they can’t handle!
The horses: red, white, black
and pale are doing this damage.
There’s a manhunt for child-mummies:
Ransom for bearded baboon’s pleasure,
Whose cousin preys on
ladies in Mahatma’s land.
With Ozone slain – the gatekeeper,
Blood only flows in our river:
Wormwood swelling its banks as
in John’s vision on that island.
Stars, burning, fall like leaves,
as that one in Putin’s land.
Arms raised, quiver loaded
aim at the terror bundle!
Revelation – black and white; rise
now, else you pay them homage!