Upon the scribbled pages of an oyster’s shell
There lie, on weight the scars of yester years;
Borne ashore a sea urchin belle, spherical to nation
Whose spines blacken by fragments of thunder?
Flotsam and jetsam of war curl the eyes’ views.
O sweet child, you’re the living mirror of the radicals,
Once victim, now hunger for revenge!
Your spines, so poisonous – a terrorist in you grew.
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