Mother of Three

Dedicated to the children of Syria, 

You kids are the real heros.

    —

It’s not the melody of the birds, but the cry of a mother of three,

Her meaningless words of despair, her unheard agony,

That greets me every morning, but I’ve learnt to go to sleep,

I tell myself that her devils aren’t real, she’ll be normal eventually

It’s the tortured screams, like of a prisoner of war,  injured brutally,

Accused of being a patriot, for that, beaten bloody,

That sing to my ears as I dress and prepare myself to leave,

I tell myself that I’ll worry later, for that mother of three,

It’s the lullaby of those three children, illuminated head to feet,

Enveloped by the warmth of fire, no where to run or flee,

That echos in my mind as I drive to work, calling out with melancholy,

I picture my own three souls in that lullaby, waiting for me to greet,

And when that feeble voice,already struggling to breath,

Understanding that no one cares for that charcoaled heart, in ashes, for three,

Extinguishes like that candle that cried itself to sleep,

It’s when I tell myself, I’ll go meet that mother of three…

                                                        —

Copyright 2017.

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