June 1, 1967
poem by Rob Currin

August 29, 2011

While the blood poured from your body,

the day turned to night.

The great eagle soared and swooped

on his victorious flight.

No, you shakily uttered,

all the while, the rich men muttered,

beaming as their rolls were buttered,

as another mother became de-mothered.

As you lay,

the bullets spray

and take away

somebody’s tomorrow.

And the world, it turns

while the village burns

and the killer yearns

to make a profit.


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