Instead of battlefields, these six haiku show what war does at the margins: to children, to women, to ordinary people who are made to cheer. The opening image, a half-moon over maps of poor countries, sets the tone. War begins as something abstract, planned over paper, with the sky looking on indifferently.
After that the poems turn to people. A man takes a child and dances with it, an ordinary gesture that feels menacing here. A soldier lives in his own head as a "flying army." A rape is hushed up by marriage, and the community takes the sacrament as though nothing happened. The last lines are the bleakest: people who cannot bear children applaud the chance to meet death.
The speaker never says "I feel," but the anger is plain in the word "bastard" and in the questions about whose bread pays for war. The mood is cold, accusing and uneasy, and the short form makes each image land like a small blow.