My Poem Will Not Save You
Remember the toddler lying face down
on the sand, and the waves gently receding
from his body as if a forgotten dream?
My poem will not turn him onto his back
and lift him up
to his feet
so he can run
into a familiar lap
like before.
I am sorry
my poem will not
block the shells
when they fall
onto a sleeping town,
will not stop the buildings
from collapsing
around their residents,
will not pick up the broken-leg flower
from under the shrapnel,
will not raise the dead.
My poem will not defuse
the bomb
in the public square.
It will soon explode
where the girl insists
that her father buy her gum.
My poem will not rush them
to leave the place
and ride the car
that will just miss the explosion.
Many mistakes in life
will not be corrected by my poem.
Questions will not be answered.
I am sorry
my poem will not save you.
My poem cannot return
all of your losses,
not even some of them,
and those who went far away
my poem won’t know how to bring them back
to their lovers.
I am sorry.
I don’t know why the birds
sing
during their crossings
over our ruins.
Their songs will not save us,
although, in the chilliest times,
they keep us warm,
and when we need to touch the soul
to know it’s not dead,
their songs
give us that touch.
From In Her Feminine Sign (New Directions Press, 2019) by Dunya Mikhail
Useful in the pages
After a journal
This is how before is worthless
Your an adult
The responsible is your enemy
Your poem is over
The journalism is critical and will not cease until the files weigh down the responsible with a new war of unreasonable critical exacting report
Unearthing another leader
As the war lines become visible in fronts ahead of your hands
Your worthless afterlife is spent
Being wars
One after anotheragi
Your instincts ar
The deceit opens
This is life
In any country the general assembly contains itself
That function
Is ignored
The joy is taken early
The settlement of life began an ice age
Ago
Your instincts are killed in inanimate stockpiles won by you and your inheritance
The opposition in function is contaminate by foolish exposure to power
A name will not fall,
The assembly is fractured and war is spilt in repeated expenditure of continent, as it wouldn't seem itself shut
The purse strings cannot be cut
This is ill robbery of freedom and peace
And yet your life is payed for by taxpayer? What war is suffered by you?
Harbor House and 80 East Hillcrest privatized thoughts of homeless shelter in madness
Acquiring all donation rights as commodity
Before Harbor House admin was appointed as a volunteer I watched generous donations of 15,000$ come in
Routinely
Now, homekey fraud
From years in homeless court community service to no clothes or allowance of dignified entrance into any of our 7 churches
From years in homeless court community service to no clothes or allowance of dignified entrance into any of our 7 churches
#asmirwin #declanwalsh #repbrownley #aoc #elizabethwarren #cagovernor #nytimes #latimes #washingtonpost
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 4:25 AM UTC
My Poem Will Not Save You
Remember the toddler lying face down
on the sand, and the waves gently receding
from his body as if a forgotten dream?
My poem will not turn him onto his back
and lift him up
to his feet
so he can run
into a familiar lap
like before.
I am sorry
my poem will not
block the shells
when they fall
onto a sleeping town,
will not stop the buildings
from collapsing
around their residents,
will not pick up the broken-leg flower
from under the shrapnel,
will not raise the dead.
My poem will not defuse
the bomb
in the public square.
It will soon explode
where the girl insists
that her father buy her gum.
My poem will not rush them
to leave the place
and ride the car
that will just miss the explosion.
Many mistakes in life
will not be corrected by my poem.
Questions will not be answered.
I am sorry
my poem will not save you.
My poem cannot return
all of your losses,
not even some of them,
and those who went far away
my poem won’t know how to bring them back
to their lovers.
I am sorry.
I don’t know why the birds
sing
during their crossings
over our ruins.
Their songs will not save us,
although, in the chilliest times,
they keep us warm,
and when we need to touch the soul
to know it’s not dead,
their songs
give us that touch.
From In Her Feminine Sign (New Directions Press, 2019) by Dunya Mikhail
Useful in the pages
After a journal
This is how before is worthless
Your an adult
The responsible is your enemy
Your poem is over
The journalism is critical and will not cease until the files weigh down the responsible with a new war of unreasonable critical exacting report
Unearthing another leader
As the war lines become visible in fronts ahead of your hands
Your worthless afterlife is spent
Being wars
One after anotheragi
Your instincts ar
The deceit opens
This is life
In any country the general assembly contains itself
That function
Is ignored
The joy is taken early
The settlement of life began an ice age
Ago
Your instincts are killed in inanimate stockpiles won by you and your inheritance
The opposition in function is contaminate by foolish exposure to power
A name will not fall,
The assembly is fractured and war is spilt in repeated expenditure of continent, as it wouldn't seem itself shut
The purse strings cannot be cut
This is ill robbery of freedom and peace
And yet your life is payed for by taxpayer? What war is suffered by you?
Harbor House and 80 East Hillcrest privatized thoughts of homeless shelter in madness
Acquiring all donation rights as commodity
Before Harbor House admin was appointed as a volunteer I watched generous donations of 15,000$ come in
Routinely
Now, homekey fraud
From years in homeless court community service to no clothes or allowance of dignified entrance into any of our 7 churches
From years in homeless court community service to no clothes or allowance of dignified entrance into any of our 7 churches
#asmirwin #declanwalsh #repbrownley #aoc #elizabethwarren #cagovernor #nytimes #latimes #washingtonpost