A boy of sixteen
Head split open, scattered brain
A lonely school bag

He could have been,
A better surgeon than I’ll ever be
A better poet
He might’ve even achieved his dream
Yet he died
At nineteen!

They set fire to my country
And watched as it burned down
Forgetting that it was a phoenix
And the phoenix rises from its ash

Little girl
Dreaming of a land
Far away
Where the world ends
Or it could be high, atop the clouds
So big,
or it could be small
Hidden in the mountains, behind a waterfall
Tiny, beneath the petals of the rose
The red round umbrella of a mushroom
Where She’d meet a fairy
A gentle ladybug, and a frog so scary
She’d eat the nectar and drink the dew
So plain a life
A dream to hush the cries of the war.

How still the body may sit
When all the soul wants is escape.