Rifles Splintering Bones
 

Rifles splintering bones from across the valley
They shoot us like ducks on a pond
Will I die in the next volley?
I must slip away tonight
Slide knowingly over the hills to the coast
And catch a boat to the Azores
These sun-baked mountains turn my stomach
The olives and grapes have all gone
Just butchery today
One dead beside one living
I didn’t want this
I don’t hate them enough to kill them
What’s the point debating it now?
In the village they didn’t listen to me
I must leave
Before I die for nothing.