He lies under the twisted frame of a European coupe:

He was coming home from market, but he bought his bread too soon.

He cries without a thought to what his crying could achieve—

If only he had stole his dinner he’d be a healthy thief.

“Don’t move this load on top of me: I’m naked underneath,”

His shock-filled eyes relate to all the MP’s that start to heave.

A light shines bright into his eyes; he knows it’s from high above,

But it’s just a doctor’s visit showing his compuls’ry love.

First uncle and then schoolmate and now one more life slips below

With this young Karbala boy’s death beneath a car used to explode.

But wait! My perch across the street shows a scene that should bring song!

The boy’s stood up! He’s walking now! No—he’s dead, dragging along.