Raymond A. Foss Poems

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We are reaping the whirlwind,
the fruits of torture, acts
committed in our names

A loss of identity, our place in the world
compromise, failed convictions,
missed opportunities

A growing reservoir of hate,
of those ready to take up arms
strap on bombs,
against us, our interests

Failing a moral test
doing that which we abhor
and bearing its stain
for years to come

June 16, 2007 16:59

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