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.