Falling from Sky

What a pure thing a sailor be,

Breathing the salt-wind and deep blue water

Not knowing war and crime

Happening miles away from sea

 

What a peaceful day a farmer has,

Exhausted by planting seed and cropping corn field

Not witnessing evil pulling pen that is not gun

Far, far above the motherland

 

What an exquisite home a baby sleeps,

Safe and sound inside his crib

Not suffocating, dying in Syria’s leftover ground

Burn with chlorine – or sarin they never ask for

 

What a comfort one may never thank for,

To read,

To see,

To remember,

To imagine,

To cry,

without having to run

no stamp, no flag

asking for one more day

 

What a joy

What a life.

 

SA - New York, 6 April 2017

To Syria