Bosnia - A K Ramanujam

How can one write about Bosnia
Biafra, Bangladesh,just to take only the atrocities that begin with B

alphabetise cruleties,
eating persimmons and sleeping safe
in the arms of a lover,a wet moon

in the mullioned window?How file away
a young friend just dead of ovarian cancer;
a young breast cigarette-burned by a jealous

husband;where shall i put the old man who peers
through office windows looking for a yes
that'll negate all no's,or bosnia mothers

who lift their babies to strangers
squabbling for a foothold in lorries fleeing
to the borders where only death waits

gun and milk in hand,irony in his narrowed eyes
holding in one thought Bosnia,cancer,
persimmons,widows,serial kilers,

and you and me in our precarious safety?