A poem.

A retired general said
"the beautiful thing about it"
discussing war.
We were making "progress"
in our war effort.
"The appropriate time to launch the bombers"
pierced the A section with artillery as
"awe" huddled in a corner
clutching its small chest.
Someone else repeated, "in harm's way,"
strangely popular lately,
and "weapons of mass destruction"
felt gravely confused about their identity.
"Friendly" gasped. Fierce and terminal.
It had never agreed to sit beside fire, never.

Naomi Shihab Nye

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