i.

There is a little girl with malaria.

‘Mama, why do those men
in white make medicine and guns?  

        Where is brother?  

                 Will I die?’

        Morning dew graces
              her feverish forehead.

‘Mama, if I were a flower, I would
embrace the sun and kiss the bees.’

ii.

There is a little boy with a gun.

‘Sorry mister, I’ve got to shoot you.  
                          If I don’t, they’ll kill
                  my mama and my baby
               sister.  I’ve come to hate
               these hands. I apologize,
            and hope you understand.’

iii.

Flies buzz about the wilting
         neck of a gazanium,
    indifferent to the smoldering
                        skies and towns,
       as a bang whimpers below
       the glowing moon.