War seeps through seams of tent,
uniformed locusts
not with bullets
but unbuckled belts
to pin down soft bones
with imported boots.
Her mom-made pretty dress
from the last fabric in market,
can't protect.
Legs open like a broken gate,
blood soaking into sand
which grew millets.
The goat pen filled with
hysterical laughter,
Clumps of hair
and milk teeth,
scattered like chaff.
She is looted like a grain sack.
Scrawling to her hut
with what is left
after the earthquake.
Soon a sickness will
grow in her
which kicks.
Boot prints in bellies
is the real battlefield.
Split shadows are the goal.
War is never over
unless the women say it is.
-
Author:
Aman 12 (
Offline) - Published: November 5th, 2025 03:01
- Comment from author about the poem: Rape is war's biggest weapon and the cheapest.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This poem is brutally raw and explicit in its metaphors. It is hard to read but then so too is reality. Its imagery is graphic and its message most pertinent. It calls out against the savagery of war and mankind. In the last line there is a double twist where a glimmer of hope is given to women's control as bleak and dark as that might be. A fave
it was difficult to write .. but somethings have to be written.Thank you for reading this difficult read
My pleasure
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