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Ruins and Remnants of Syria and Iraq

“I have seen what cannot be unseen.” Confessed the little boy To a uniformed interrogator From a small chair In Iraq, The boy’s lips dried and crumbled Around his mouth Like chalk Outlining the final place and time Of his terrible crime. Dust is glued to his cheeks From what was his teacher’s Breath of ISIS rot, The man’s kiss of death Planted upon the boy By stolen Mohammad. From miles and miles of rubble, From arms and legs And removed heads, From the smell of rape still ripe In the clogged blood rivers, From cities where fire, wind and stray dogs Are hung upside down, stiff and dead, From a country Where there are no streets, trees or flowers Anymore, Where even water refuses to flow, Where every name of everything Has vanished Forever, Where all the buildings Have been returned to Earth Like cracked boulders Rolled down hillside avalanches. From this victory… The boy is all that remains. What to do with ruins? Stand What is left upright, for the sake of defiance? Cut out his tongue? Gouge his eyes? Bring in bulldozers and swipe the city clean? Kill him now, and get it over with? Spit on their black flag? Ban it forever. Burn it down to ashes? Stare upon the whole thing With unspeakable awe? Give the former place money to recover? Remove his hands and feet and turn him loose? Dig it up from the root, eat it and **** it? Forgive it. Forget it? Rinse, wash, repeat. Shine the light of God Upon its evil face. Stop the insanity of believing in God? Call them animals, treat them as such? Fillet them for an eternity? Put it behind glass in museums. Enjoy the victory of owning history. Give up? Call it too grim. Determine that he’s a ticking time bomb? Never speak of it again. Live in fear. Let him go? Have faith. Stuff him with heavenly feathers? Give them what they deserve. Start over. Realize, you can never start over. But, Still. He’s a boy. Sitting there. On that chair. Trembling, Within a hand’s reach. What to do? What to do. When not only countries are ruined, But children, As well.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 10/21/2018 2:06:00 AM
Like you, I have no answer. Love seems to be not anyway near enough to mitigate the horror. Writing about it maybe helps, but we are reaching for the impossible. I am very touched by your story and feel helpless, angry and...what? Your poem is well written and I 'enjoyed' reading it. Kai
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