The battle finished.
Cold bodies on the ground.
Some, on the edge of extinction,
still moan.
Who won.
Who lost.
Nursing your bleeding wound,
you don’t give a damn.
The darkness—
cold, unforgiving.
Yet the morning didn’t spare.
It killed.
And let the night
bear the burden of ghosts.
With a numbed mind
you tried to think:
How many did you kill.
Wasn’t there a time
when everyone said killing
was immoral,
unthinkable.
Now you see:
morality, humanity, religion—
all packs of condoms.
Purchase.
Use.
Discard.
In that darkness,
burdened by the absence
of everything you were asked to believe in,
you stood
with unsteady gait,
lowered the zipper,
and relieved yourself.