Warscape: Iraq, Syria. Poem by Milind Padki

(Whose eggs are broken?
To make an omelet for whom?)

Jagged steel of exploded buildings stabbing the sky, black smoke
Billowing in the background, charred cars and humvies
Lining the roadside.

This is routine.

When a bomb, a cannon
Ball hits the bedroom, the babies evaporate, the girls
Are blown to smithereens.
The boys run around not knowing
What to do, before Allah gathers them up, too.

The women lurch along
In the backside of construction trucks, their heads
Covered against the Sun and Islam. They clutch rice bags,
Plastic utensils, soiled water bottles.
Their eyes are red. Their men are
Dead. They smile at the camera.

The photographer then moves on to the five star hotel
Where the potentates are meeting.
He does his best
To avoid photographing the
Lavishly laid table.

xxx