The Diary of a War Child

It happens outside the door:

children scream for mothers dragged from bed,

quivering evermore.

These streets have been bleak before -

over the faces of Black men, white men tread:

it happens outside the door.

Sad girls, burrow, prisoners of war;

fearfully trailed by tears they've shed,

quivering evermore.

Sad boys, harbouring that which they implore,

hollowed by faces of dread:

It happens outside the door.

Broken women, yet ignored:

muddied by the wounds they've bled,

quivering evermore.

School-children barricade their bodies on the floor,

trailed by puddles of red;

it happens outside the door -

we quiver evermore.