AMIRA'S SUMMER BOUGH

On her bruised knees she leans down
near the dying grass, eager to heed the
joyous tears of heavens influence;
dew drops, tiny wishes to cleanse the stained meadow
and blanket all the dead eyes of summer’s prey
(hope sunk by the shadow of heavy tanks).

Dear Amira dreamed of more than war,
more than terror, death and torture,
dreamed of laughter and friends, the tender
touch of her mother’s bosom to her cheek
as she cuddled near in shriveled nightfall
(love blunted by the rasp of bombs).

Anxious, she bends forward with promise in
the gentle curve of her spine. She’s desperate
to feel the coolness against her cheeks,
(no light could hold the perilous bough)
those nights when her mother fiercely hugged her
as unbearable noises began painting the meadow.

© 2008 mrp/tpm

Occupation Orphaned Millions


Rolling along "E"...
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