By Michael David Rawlings
Copyright © 2011
Copyright © 2011
I have seen the blood that flows from Private Alters,
That glistens on wasted flesh and bone.
I have seen the tiny severed Fingers—pink, adrift in murky, black waters.
In all my feverish dreams I hear their muted screams,
And in their eyes, those bewildered eyes turned on callous faces,
I see a plea . . . and the wounded face of God.
That glistens on wasted flesh and bone.
I have seen the tiny severed Fingers—pink, adrift in murky, black waters.
In all my feverish dreams I hear their muted screams,
And in their eyes, those bewildered eyes turned on callous faces,
I see a plea . . . and the wounded face of God.
"It is Our Right!" they rant. "Our Right!"
"Yes," I whisper, small and foolish,
"But the Babies, the little Babies."
"But the Babies, the little Babies."
