Tank tracks
Gouge muddied channels
Our homes and schools
Laced with mortar bombardment
Such pretty lace
Grandmother's white lace
Wet lace
Her sons and grandchildren,
All outlived and buried
In mud, somewhere
And she
Media fodder
Primetime tears
For one military complex or another

Soldiers are smeared in the mud
By the tongues of politicians
Presidents, jutting and resolute
Girded with popular patriotism
Denounce terrorism
Up to their genitals in blood
But their hands are clean,
And they are far away
Attending the Peace Process -
So who can we blame,
But those less mired than ourselves -
Who, but the Enemy?

Yes, there are war criminals in our every field and bar
A corpse beneath each muddy turned potato
Animals bereft, perplexed and wandering
Cows left achingly unmilked
But we lean to hear the tinny transistor words
Of world leaders
Drowned out by bombers' drones
The peacemakers cut our land in small squares
Those gore-drenched ghouls
Shake protocol-polite clean hands
At lengthy polished tables

And we, condemned to repeat history
In spiraling murderous circles
The well is full of the dead
Where, then, do we wash our hands?
In whose blood, but the Enemy?

By: Joel Hakim