is life worth the carnage in the street?
the corner where the children played
drips with blood, black with gore.
Broken glass and broken hearts
This is not the country of your father,
that kills its men and women and babies.
this is not the language of your mother,
that screams in rage, in hate, in oppression,
Here, they target your religion.
Your politics. These brothers you may have
served or salaam-ed?
You can no longer call them your own.
The ones on the rooftops,
in the street,
in the crowd,
the ones sending you to your grave,
peering through their crosshairs.