Tuesday, September 3, 2013

To our Syrian children

You heard the bells,
And soon
Your tiny hands and tiny chin
Met the ground

And then you said,
Words beyond your grasp
Uttered in generations and
Generations passed

Echoes in the city
Echoes of words

You cannot grasp

Your tiny lips
That makes your sky wide smile
You whisper words you cannot grasp

Then a sound
More of a roar
Much louder than the bells
The booms and blasts,
And bellows heard throughout

You cannot grasp
And soon the air
Is thin, so thin
You cannot breathe
Your lungs they burn
                A colored dream
                Of red and ash
But you’re wide awake
                You’re standing there

You wail
You cry
Your eyes are swollen
Those big blue piercing eyes
Are bloodshot now

And one by one
No, by tens perhaps
Bodies drop
                On dirt and dust

And as you twitch
And lie with them
Those you played with
On rare calm morns

Their tiny hand you held
Their tiny lips you sang with

You twitched
And twitched
And twitched with them
                As if a dance

And when the pain
Cannot be bore
When you cry
But with tears no more
                The air escaped one final time
                You cannot hear the wails, you cannot feel the sore

You cannot hear no more
The words you cannot grasp

And they who killed you
They’ll fall on ground again
And say the words you haven’t grasped
                They have heard those words too much perhaps
                But they did not want to really grasped

Your blood was the price

Of blood owed by generations passed

No comments:

Post a Comment