Bombs fall from the sky
like a hail storm—
as the gale winds blow down
clay built huts built
by clay-colored hands.

And a baby learns
not to cry,
because she can’t.

And a baby learns
not to eat,
because she can’t.

And a baby learns
how to sleep,
  because she is already dead.

And the dust dances around her
naked flesh.

And the dust wraps his arms
around her like a father.

While 3,000 miles away,
WASPs sit in a boardroom
slapping shoulders in congratulations
because clay-colored niggers
were just tucked into bed.