Endless, random future death by happenstance as Bosnia rediscovers its mines . . . one by one.
These Things are SaltedThirty or forty years from now, a young man walking
with his love, or picking mushrooms, or perhaps
with his own young son on his shoulders will lose
his legs and lie, a bleeding, helpless wreckage
of all his young dreams . . . victim of a mine
These things are salted, strewn about with reckless
Abandon in the truest meaning of the word
by the Johnny Appleseed of land-mines
A million here, a million there, lying forever in wait
for the step of a wild young deer or this young man
What do we tell him, what words are there for the
stripping of his land and a life without his legs?
That we thought it vital to the murderous revenge
of some long-past argument and walked away?
Littering the generations not-yet born and making
their single misstep a bloody vindication of our own
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