Syria`s Children

Syria`s Children He sat down to write a poem for nature When he closed his eyes and saw bombed out buildings Rain dripping from wrecked concrete onto The street where it formed a muddy pool but that Didn't stop the children playing captains of the deep sea Another bomb fell and obliterated this harsh idyll What was left was mist and fire where it once had been A muddy puddle. His pleasant poem about a track and olive roots trying To trip him up, the shepherd, his dog and sheep coming His way the good small of wool like an obscenity today And did little to assuage his fear for the future.