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Bosnia tune, И.А. Бродский As you pour yourself a scotch, crush a roach, or check your watch, as your hand adjusts your tie, people die. In the towns with funny names, hit by bullets, cought 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 good-bye, people die. People die as you elect new apostles of neglect, self-restraint, etc. - whereby people die. Too far off to practice love for thy neighbor/brother Slav, where your cherubds dread to fly, people die. While the statues disagree, Cain’s version, history for its fuel tends to buy those who die. As you watch the athletes score, check your latest statement, or sing your child a lullaby, people die. Timee, whose sharp blood-thirsty quill parts the killed from those who kill, will pronounce the latter tribe as your tribe.
