There is so much sadness in this dusty child
Not enough skin to wrap around, protect us
From such sights as these
To which god shall we pray?
They say, inevitability, casualty
Not ours, so why should we care?
Because his eyes are blear shell shocked holes
Where mirth should play and smiles flicker
Nothing grows or moves…
An unholiness in the broken bleeding baby
That breaks the soul in two.
But he is material fact statistically,
So, nothing new,he’s old.
Like a warrior fresh from combat sees nothing
He is not here, but somewhere out there
With the burning flesh of accursed rain
A mortar ends all pain, arms and legs and feet
In piles, blocking gullies and drains
Use them as a barricade, these passive staring things
Useful commodities like weaponry or toys.
No child should know how rank we are
How ill disposed to sweet small trusting things
Beneath a sky that rains fire in hellish measure
The ornaments of war are children
Blown to bloody smithereens
As everybody knows.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved