The young female terrorists lie slumped in their theatre seats
resembling rubber dolls thrown away in disgust
after an orgy by perverts.
They have no names
shall be forgotten
but they had parents who will grief
and some will even proudly call their daughters freedom fighters
to allay their immense loss
but alone they will mourn
and in hearts hate will sing of revenge.

Rescued hostages are carried out,
the naked, the dead and the dying are laid on a grimy pavement
in the darkness of an early morning
and an obscene camera soaks up details of our inhumanity,
yet this stark reality has an unreal quality
like seeing pieces of a fragmented nightmare
that wakes up us early
and casts a gloom, a deep shadow through the day.

At the gates of hospitals they stay
mothers in shabby winter coats
pain written in lined faces
‘Is my child in there?’
No one knows or cares to answer
and as always they have to queue
and wait while mother Russia cries.
Cry you too, shout loudly, break down the wall of silence
behind where leaders sit saying nothing
keeping their dirty secrets and deals to themselves.