When they were kids they threw ‘dirtballs’ in acts of war,
their way of showing the offensive and winning battles.
There was a visit that year from Northern Ireland. Belfast
was sending children to freedom’s roots, a symbolic gesture.
my the stories they told,
living in a war zone,
surviving while playing
with molotov cocktails.
we announced a dirtball fight at the construction yard
picked our teams and built our walls, stacking bundles
of clustered clay balls nearby our home ground.
The Irish kids as we called them sort of stood nearby,
a little laughter, and perhaps
some polite mock surprise.
A reaction to the fear and cry
of one of our eyes being hit by
shattered glass that remained remnants
outside her bedroom window as she went
to sleep on any given day. She always
wondered whether this might be the day,
brother lost earlier,
parents always tired,
the streets a war zone
the streets a war zone.
Today, children in markets with suicide bombs,
young girls running frightened to their detonation,
This is a new generation of pain and fear,
Pakistan, Nigeria, and Paris, under the lights.
We are the reason for this,
our human personality,
we didn’t just suddenly
become a violent species.
We’ve spent centuries in vicious practice
learning just how far our evil can seek bliss.