Bosnia the Damned

A spreading stain seeps through
The tattered map of Balkan life,
Pinned to a general’s table,
Spiked by armies,
Riddled with the holes
Where they have been.

Tributaries swell up
And streams turn red
To drain away the wounds,
From a trickle to torrential rush
Of blood and screams.

Can tears, the waters of lament
Ever wash away the torment?

Can the human heart encompass all
To tame the armored beast within
And give the hand that says
It is forgiven?

Or must these sins without remorse
Cascade from father down to son,
To gnaw away the faces of the young
And forever
Join them to their bloody course?