Rage, like lava,
flows ancient gorges
in the brain,
reheating memory,
resusitating the red flame.
History, dormant and ready
to burst its crust
to cremate again.

From whence comes this lust
for volcanic destruction?
Sons follow Fathers,
hurt births hurt
until flaming lipped
Molotovs explode from
beneath grinding plates,
sliding, catching, cracking,
unlocking, slipping, releasing
an inch, a foot,
six feet, twelve,
unsnapping a new holocaust,
free to burn
once again.