What a Little Boy should never See by Marjon Van Bruggen

I am not a silent poet

The poor city bathed in blood

each drop in the name of one god or another

aftermath of a violent, destructive

and inhuman storm.

His mum, his dad, both are gone.

Are they dead? He does not know.

Home, he seizes the small statues,

once a cherished gift from them,

now they enrage him; they stand

so placid and silent on bookshelves

and table tops they seem out of place.

Decapitated heads, amputated arms

and severed legs crash in all directions

in splashes of marble, stone and porcelain.

Explosive red flares before his eyes

equalising the street scenes.

This is what he sees the rest of his life.

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