as they go dancing away, looking for more things to shatter

This world is held 

in the hands of people 

who like to break things, 

who see glass sculptures 

and send their fists swinging, 

not a drop of blood coming 

from their unscathed hands 

while others are left to bleed 

as they clean up the shards.

 

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world

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