When they were kids they threw ‘dirtballs’ in acts of war,

their way of showing the offensive and winning battles.

There was a visit that year from Northern Ireland. Belfast

was sending children to freedom’s roots, a symbolic gesture.

my the stories they told,

living in a war zone,

surviving while playing

with molotov cocktails.

we announced a dirtball fight at the construction yard

picked our teams and built our walls, stacking bundles

of clustered clay ***** nearby our home ground.

The Irish kids as we called them sort of stood nearby,

a little laughter, and perhaps

some polite mock surprise.

A reaction to the fear and cry

of one of our eyes being hit by

dirt

pain

limbs

blood

shattered glass that remained remnants

outside her bedroom window as she went

to sleep on any given day. She always

wondered whether this might be the day,

brother lost earlier,

parents always tired,

the streets a war zone

the streets a war zone.

Today, children in markets with suicide bombs,

young girls running frightened to their detonation,

This is a new generation of pain and fear,

Pakistan, Nigeria, and Paris, under the lights.

We are the reason for this,

our human personality,

we didn’t just suddenly

become a violent species.

We’ve spent centuries in vicious practice

learning just how far our evil can seek bliss.