POEM: It’s Summer
in the south where we are busy
slaughtering each other.
There’s no time for flowers amid
burnt bodies and ruins.
Scalding summer will pass, autumn
will arrive unnoticed. If only an early winter
rain would come, send us all indoors, there
to stand at shattered thresholds and watch
the yellow sky weep and weep
for all our dead.
By Rachel Tzvia Back
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