Two hundred more times,
the earth was cut. “Make room for
the hunted”, sang the one-armed mother.
“I can’t find my arm, and I am too sorrowed to search”.
She sits by the sunset; arm resting on dying
nerves. She, in calm and thirst, drinks of her
own blood. Whispering quiet freedom
into the dust flavoured breeze.
This silence is not peace.
The gods, the devils, and mighty are at war
for her peace. For her smile, they have
killed her neighbours. Her children
finally lie in peace. Tonight,
their hunger is repelled
by the gods, or devils,
or mighty. Their
peace is assured
by the hand
of the hunter.
She smiles at the beautiful sunset
As she drinks peace to her full
from her bleeding