"I want my legs back," the girl cried in Arabic.

"I want my legs back."

You can't have your legs back, little girl.

They have been eaten by a hungry machine

who needs them for fuel to power its gears.

The machine needs your legs to keep the sky raining bombs

and to make its death robots fly.

Your legs power the bulldozers digging mass graves

and the tanks blowing holes in the hospitals.

A glorious kingdom is held together

by the amputated limbs of children.

A pentagon-shaped castle is built from the bones

of the amputated limbs of children.

Wall Street werewolves and bank boys dine

on the amputated limbs of children.

Movie stars treat their wrinkles with creams

made from the amputated limbs of children.

Suburban families prop up their smiles

with the amputated limbs of children.

The news man lies and in his eyes

you see the amputated limbs of children.

The podium man smirks and between his teeth

are the amputated limbs of children.

And the little girl cries,

and the news man ignores her,

and the podium man smirks at her,

and the bank boy bites her,

and the machine rolls on,

limbs fed into its furnace with pitchforks,

crushing houses and blackening the sky,

poisoning the oceans and bloodying the earth,

while the air fills with the crying of children,

for limbs that will never come back,

for homes that will never come back,

for mothers that will never come back,

for childhoods that will never come back,

for brightness that will never come back,

for innocence that will never come back,

for dreams that will never come back,

for joy that will never come back.

And we are here,

eating cheesy meatcarbs and watching funny haw-haws

and gossiping and prattling and wishing we looked better

and trying not to think about all the tiny arms and legs

we see covering the earth

whenever we step outside.

Reading by Tim Foley.