Bosnia Seen From Above
1992 - 1995

On quiet Sundays between the revolutions,

After the bombing and before the morning,

The soul returns in tired, injured steps

to help my grandpa pick mushrooms in the forest.


When dirty victims go back into their drawers,

for reasons only politicians know,

I see the kitchen where my mom was panicked

The stew's too bland - no salt or bread at all.


When spy detectors clean the human race,

Black suits and ties push buttons of decision,

I stick a branch in quaking wicked pace

to stop the rhythm for the ants in trouble.


There's so much air - sometimes you suffocate

"Atlantis" - can you see me cry?

Important sightings trying to locate?

There's just the black box and my final flight...


Iolanda Scripca, San Diego