Death speaks one language, profane
And doomed to a lasting fate of increasing
Hate. It hides beneath trackless jungles,

Puking blood in volumes. Staining foliage
Of sacrilege, it renders a jungle homeless,
Preening itself of incestuous ability to kill.

Death resides permanently in Golgotha —
That arena for killing — you well remember it:
On the throat of the Congo, where it hurts to

Swallow, by common laws of deglutition,
A passing air. Armed to the teeth, Death grins
When the basilisk stares of exhumed dragons

Rage with potent fire, fire that congeals
Rather than consume, blood in one fell swoop.
Such are symbols of a people — bones, blood

And the stench of hate — wafting thoroughly
Through nostriled winds that gather eloquence
On the dusts of Darfur.

Death is shameless.
It's a prostitute
And it's on demand.