Afternoon sky, here, wears a cordial blue,
a few white clouds soft glide ‘bove gentle air.
Even plane passengers can’t smell the stew
of far flung blood and sweat in missiles’ lair.
It is quite weird to seat and brush my hair
when someone’s head, afar, turns red in flame.
If I sip my coffee, do I not care
for lives disturbed by a few’s chosen game?
It’s hard to savor some sweet morning dew
when a country’s sky is more smoke than blue.