Thursday, April 6, 2017


Oh Omran and your bloody buddies
the grownups play at messages, missiles
and airplanes – gassing up and guessing
gawking at convulsing pre-rigormortised
contortions – Oh Omaran, they’re talking
and shocked at the pictures of hoses and
water trying to wash away the sin and
stain … talking about strategies and coming
consequences, droning on about droning
and force, playing at messages and missiles
when you know – you know that all it would
take would be to pull up the tanks to the border
open doors and arms wide and pull you all up –
gather you all and drive off to safe sanctuary
leave those who play at murder alone –
allow your still living buddies the breath of
unsullied air into far flung freedom – for it
would be they who would blossom across
this globe until those who revel in death and
destruction dried, abandoned in the rubble
of their creation consigned to wander without
target for lunatic rage. Oh Omran, and your
bloody buddies – move over – for I must sit for
a while, pulling at my own hair – staring blankly
in helpless confusion at my own blood- stained
fingertips – typing words into an unchanging wind –
military might -
but rescue is certain –
If this seems ungrateful...
catch a surviving speck of
ash floating in the histories
of six million and far far more
Ask the ghosts which they choose
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies....
You know.

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