We know the images
know what war is
but the bunkers are empty
Our sky is soft

We know the people
with passing paces they walk
home in a spiny skin
cautiously over the sandpaper

of the hurry of their lives
They take a subscription
to series and the hospital
which is always cheap

We know the paths
beyond the musty acid air
of fresh building rubble
they bend

through muddy fields full
of fellow-sufferers in luxury cardboard boxes
and pathetic stray dogs
bur our sky is soft

the world is not here
under the red sheet
of mama's bed
on a holiday