Terror

The voice of the speaker, as monotonous as ever,
Was the morose opposite of the uncanny screams
And the disowned body parts of the unprepared people.
Unprepared for the blast bursting in the bosom of a 20-year old,
Tearing open the gut of a city, in the tired evening hours.
Hatred has become the weed growing in our backyards
Where lives are cheaper than the explosives putting them out.
The pure face of a youth victim illuminates my screen.
With him hope dies and is forever buried
Under meaningless fatalism.
And religion is once again exploited
While man does evil to other man for the love of God.

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