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BALKAN SACRIFICE

Born as a refugee

     from fire and bayonet,

my mouth a cellar of smoke,

     my father’s worst fear yet,

I push into to the light,

     my mother’s bloody yes,

as the cremating fires

     cleanse our villages.

Time for the universe

     to rub my eye

in its eternal wound

     and let me die.

In mere hours

     I am young,

but old if breath

     counts wrong.

Alan Marshfield

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