I live in a place
With too many dead heroes
And not enough present joy.
How did you write about
my city under siege?
Reporters scrambling
for shelter—and meaning—
where there was none:
mortars lighting the sky
ninety days of twisted metal
ninety days of Serbian guns
ninety days of murdered children.
I live in a place
With too many memories
And not enough anger.
What did you tell the world
was happening here?
You saw my city destroyed
and then went back
to your own, leaving behind
a wasteland
a massacre
a tragedy.
In the end, three
thousand deaths.
I live in a place
With too much hatred
And not enough healing.
We never asked to be the epicenter
of a world set ablaze
of the rape camps
of the mass graves
of the guns and mortars:
we never asked to be
Vukovar.