There are just twenty of them, would you believe!

The rest are restrained, why not allowed to leave?

Maybe the score bears numberless grains of rice

To fill million stomachs, a little left over for mice.

Divine intervention? So meagre is thy daily bread

To seek pardon for trespass on so many left dead.

And who is to say when it reaches those who fell,

Provender’s arrived, not garnished with shrapnel?

Phials, tubes, needles snap in jolts, hop and lurch

As wheels skid, seeking grip in a desperate search

Cracked jars of water gush, fallen to a pitted road

Tyres screech in smoking craters, can’t bear load.

When mouths wail, ‘Water!’ Stomachs concave,

Vacant of even morsels, and minds solely crave

For life, so ruthless wrung till pink grist remains.

Scream! Call out those who’re erasing the stains!