... In fact, it reminds me of a poem called “Bosnia Song.” I don’t care for a lot of the verse that Brodsky, a wizard in Russian, wrote in English, but these opening stanzas have stayed with me:
As you sip your brand of scotch,
crush a roach, or scratch your crotch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.
In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, caught in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.
In small places you don’t know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say goodbye,
people die.
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