ON MONDAY

A thunder of orange, brash against the sky
then flash after flash like a migraine.
 
We stood stunned as statues or dolls
in flames. This was our village.
 
We knew our names and the smell of earth
where we planted our dead. We made sure
 
that even the young knew what the days wanted.
Until that morning the stranger soared
 
above the roofs, riding his chariot fast and hard
like a high-jacked birthright, flirting with the sun
 
until metal began to melt. And we watched it all.
Stood in front of our doors and watched it all
 
as if a godless thing had fallen, burning into the dazzle of himself
to leave behind as souvenirs, the singed wings of horses

by  BABO KAMEL
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