Miles and miles of sand.
Red dust mixing with oily black smoke.
Patchwork of destruction.
Roads melting like liquorice strips.
Even the carrion birds looking for shade.
Silent tears roll from the eyes of Jihadi mothers.
In air conditioned rooms press officers try to explain.
Defending the indefensible.
Evening news complicit.
No one asking the question "why?"
Tomorrow is set for a re-run.
Kola (indistinguishable from the real thing) sits in paper cups.
Inevitably, warm and sickly sweet.
Soldiers sitting in sand blown tents.
Saviours or invaders, does anyone know any more?
Making plans to hit back at the insurgents.
Yet unable to break the cycle, to stop more from joining the throng.
All anyone can see is more of the same.
Sons and daughters continue to die.
Sacrificed on the altar of failed ideology.