Cry for the riven country.
For the ones for whom doom
descended from the skies in Douma,
spreading death in the wake
of its yellow green tendrils.
Cry for the dead and the dying.
For the ones culled from the living,
whose blood, like a libation rejected
pools at the altar of the sixth fleet.
The whine of drones,
swish of tomahawks and boom of hellfires
pounding earth into tired dust
assail their ears, lighting up
the night sky.
Cry for the four horsemen loosed,
for the quickly forgotten
and the lost ones.