I remembered the sheep shaped cloud I saw
when I was six maybe seven
That was when the war began
Walking in a roundabout with mother
We didn’t know
the sheep shape in the sky
wasn’t benign with its pinkish glow
What do they see, kids I mean
Have they vanished?
Kidnapped by force, fire and vengeance
Trapped into precocious adults
Do they cry when one dies?
Do they play beneath the bombs?
What shapes are formed in their skies
From the debris and malice of demise
They said “mother of all bombs”
Their choice of words makes me cringe
But the wound inside
Bleeds all over, it says otherwise
Of men and their wars
Crimes washed clean with
The sound of Profit
Peace and freedom delivered
In the shape of bombs