(made from old bullet cases)
Bullet
cases from the Sahara ,
poor
brass discarded
in
the shifting sands
from
forgotten wars,
one
tribe settling
scores
of ancient hate
till
all memory is lost
of
the original sin.
New
sins blossom,
the
only flowers
in a land where
starving
goats hunt
last
year’s pods
under
dead trees,
and
a boy child
watching
the hills
balances
a rifle
across
his knees.
The
old man hammers
out
of the bullets
holy
crosses
whose
patterns
hold
hands in a
splendour
of promise.
©Anne
Chappel
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