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A rubicund horizon rose over
the boulevards of Warsaw.
Innocent offspring pranced about
with their comrades,
Oblivious to the brutality reclined
on their gateways.
At midday, wagons of military traversed on,
With juvenile men drunk with fatigue,
fumbling for crumbling photographs of perturbed kin,
their eyes poignant and briny.
On the cusp of dusk there was a severe bombardment and counterblast.
Sirens, fatality and crescendo,
three words on everyone’s psyche.
Then there was immobility,
the atmosphere was sluggish like old arthritic bones,
the harrowing mania was pending.
The boulevards distorted from unsullied gray,
to a vermillion substance of debris and corpses.
A cluster of milky vans with a notorious symbol,
positioned,
waiting for a solitary swish of blameless blood.
Then, again...
Collide, rumble, blast, jerk.
There was no need to justify.
All and sundry, knew.

© Pippa Woodford, 2006 (all rights reserved)