Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Poem by Jason Irwin


In the dead, dark of night
the hawks swoop down
through the fiery fog
and Cyprus trees,
screeching like lightning
on our naked city.
Their talons
of razor wire and nightmares,
hold our fates ransom.
Huddled in basements
clutching our Holy Book,
we recite words
of comfort, begging
forgiveness for all
we may have done
to deserve this.
In the morning rubble
we search for a bite of food,
for loved ones
and answers we know
we will never find.
In ruined cafes we sip tea
and curse the night
that beckons the hawks’ return.
“How can we make them understand,”
someone asks. “Our god
is their god, too
and we, are more
than just collateral,
more than just names
that will never be written
in history books.”

1 comment:

err said...