The bull and the mother scream

The horse screams its ear-piercing neigh 

The fallen soldier gasps and expires

Under the harsh incandescent light

Of the painter’s eye, the world’s lamp

The shrill siren that warns us against all wars

The infant cannot scream because it is dead

The mother’s splayed fingers are numb

Unable to hold for longer her limp child 

Her sorrow welling like tears and blood

Under the screaming sky and the rain of fire

Her tenderness drowns in the deafening war

The soldier’s scream is frozen still 

Under the horse, trampled under the hooves 

The good-luck shoe of the gored horse

It’s black wound gaping showing the dark 

Nothing inside: The bull’s and the horse’s tails

Rise like wisps, the weightless smoke of war