on the floor, you move
under your steps I hear, a thousand child scream
as the bomb drops
and I remember how the longer I shivered-
I thought- the sooner I would learn to enjoy
music and fireworks as an adult
growing old is different than growing to heal
or heed to the sound of danger, a dancer
you lift your hand with the softer set of arms
without rhythm, a confused anger,
glide a blade in the hands of those who lost humans
gained power, to stand and speak
with the voices borrowed from those who were refused
the right to words or to moving lips
flaming hips, chant a mantra that is incomprehensible
to the back-drop of a celebration
kill to live and let live
isn't it the first rule of survival
those who are fit decide on those who are not?
the dance of war, you comment, is a beautiful thing
it only takes awareness and the right amount of appreciation
to the making of music from the clash of two swords
or the clash of two bodies, created from the same material
bone and skin,
breath and brain
rattle like hollow wood, tries to beat optimistic music
from lonely flutes
the dance of war, beautiful feeds on the same ground
where we stand
counting how many shoes can we donate to one-legged children
this is a result of movement,
eastern or western to the beat of music
your body shakes, it is beautiful you say,
to dance on flattened earth, you cannot tell
that there will be music, coming from the shaking ground
careful where you set your dance of war, for there were people
there will always be, in flattened lands, old-hidden music.
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