A despot, talons bloody, preys
on humans. Storms of missiles mow
down women, boys and girls. A haze
cloaks the country like a throw.
A murderous madman’s come to blow
Ukraine to fragments. People crowd
in subways. Food gone. Will they know
a horror like a mushroom cloud?

The city is a toxic blaze
as buildings burn. An ashy snow
rains down on echoes of yesterdays
obliterated in the glow
of fatal flames. An olio
of thoughts runs through my brain, as loud
as detonations. They all glow
like the horror of a mushroom cloud.  

A woman. Wounded. Pregnant. We gaze
in trepidation. Grief starts to grow
like a blight. She later died. The ways
to kill are countless—fast or slow.
Run with your kids from this insane show.
Don’t wait till your nation’s soul is plowed.
But will it be? Will the nightmare go,
evaporate like a misty cloud?

The despot, desperate, is keen to throw
his missiles at you. You have vowed
to bring him to his knees, although
his wrath is like a mushroom cloud.