the mob spreads from house to house
setting bodies on fire.
smoke rises from the ruins
of old mosque windows
and uploads live on phone screens.
all the lines are down
and the police keeping stern watch
on the blood that flows from ruins to ruins.
pierced cries of children lie shattered
in a mound of burning breasts and fingers.
the leaders sit in a hurdle
discussing solutions over coffee.
a committee comes up from the smoke
to write a report in two months.
Heads are beginning to roll,
dusty bureaucrats quietly take shelter
beneath the angry cries for justice.
Still the phone lines are down,
the police watching
and the night burning beneath your feet.
they slit open her body
and hold the foetus up in the air
at the tip of a rusty sword
that protects the kingdom of god.
Her womb falling into fire,
the smoke rising from the phone screens
into the laughter of leaders counting ballots
over a mound of burning breasts and fingers.
at the tip of your weapon of god,
with her unborn child.