simonhlilly

GAZA TEARS

All the poets are away at war.
We are left with birdsong and silence to sit between.

And the drip of the rain from the eaves
And the scurry of rats in the woodpile.

Beyond the shattered bones and oil-soaked rags, we are told,
There is a golden world fashioned by eloquent tongues,
Self-appointed and righteous.

Still, we burn here in sunless dark.
Freedom is a bitter word.

—