there's something about war;
its cicatrixes are always mint.
how does diplomacy wash a land
drenched with blood?
do biafrans forget the massacre?
do we forget our progenitors
who chose death to bondage
in the belly of fishes?
there's a woman cooking,
probably, a last supper,
there's no husband to caress
the bowls
only children staying alive
to grieve their father.
a boy is on an alley
with a searchlight
finding his mother's face on
cadavers heavy with vengeance.
there's something with war;
it leaves you with raw memories.