How It Tastes

How It Tastes What is taste of the blood of Beloveds? What is the sound of tears spilt alone? What is the feel of unending despair? There is a place where all this is known; This place, the world's embarrassing orphan, Where insanity is the uncontested king. Hard to stand next to a murdering; With no blood upon one's hands. Hard to shift, foot to foot, Unwilling to act, Buying time for the killers. They're "cleansing" the world of their unwanted, And the filth of it stains us all, Our leaders smearing it across their polished tables. Ask them how it tastes in Bosnia; In Bosnia they eat their own.