Winter's Solstice In Aleppo
That twinkling on the horizon ain’t no
star just another Russian fighter closing
to lay its clutch of cluster bombs
or a missile cruising in.
Winter’s solstice approaches, the rocket's
flare fizzles and only darkness remains.
Come morning, no flag will fly
in this city of ruins.
When you bomb rubble, you get only
smaller rubble, a few more dead
bodies and the unlucky ones
who ain’t dead.
More than five years caught between forces,
as leaders and faiths strike hollow truces
then bomb their own, leaving only
helpless rage and anger.
My only Christmas wish is to be
anywhere other than Aleppo.
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