for history's war widows
 
when sorrow comes
comes like a drip
               of leaking clouds
there is no shelter
no shelter from the drizzle
              of memories that haunt
of a certain requiem
a requiem that clutches
             the past like an eagle’s claw
before it feasts on history’s grief
a grief that swallows
             millions in the desert of despair––
war is our inheritance, they said
they said we live to die
             and this is our original fate
to watch the widow’s eyes bleed
bleed with the water of regret
            of sending a husband to war
from where there is no return
no return to the living dead.