Strafed by snipers, still standing in Yugoslavia.*

She hangs her laundry

From wrought iron balcony.

Bullet strafings mark

The white-washed brick.

Alongside.

Neighbour down the hall.

Almost curtains yesterday.

As he hiked empty streets.

To the bakery.

Open Wednesdays and Fridays.

If rifle fire not too bad.

Along the baker’s route.

Town become just a bunch

Of trembling hide-outs.

Central open market closed.

After mass shootings one Saturday.

Twenty one lost.

Just standing in line.

Counting their coins.

Empty concert hall

College classrooms

Soccer fields.

Swings and sandboxes.

Public garden plots

Full of garbage.

Their beloved City.

Under daily fire.

From those rebellious Hills.

Can’t even imagine

The extent of it.

Her line of laundry

Shows the only bright colours.

Bless the Woman.

Clinging hard.

Two kids inside.

Colouring.

Thinking of Dad, out there.


* the former name of this ravaged district.