Lament

It’s not just the voices,
Nor the dust and the heat,
The flies, and the ceaseless
Eruptions from what should
Be heaven but is just the sky
Heavy with bombs and unjust
Condemnation; it’s the faces
Staring into the emptiness
Of loss, at the white body bags,
The white and red burial cloths,
And jumping every time another
Explosion and gust of air
Blows across the ruins of
What was a home city, a town,
A homeland, a place to stop
Being a nomad. Just graves now.
All this is a lament, everywhere.

R 01/11/2023 18:23