Lilacs At Home; In Syria

Methodically thinking by the bushes

Pensive for the hero to arrive

Waiting, no, needing to be saved

Sometimes she is awful slow to come

The child over there – desperate for one

Wearing a pink sweater dress

Much, much too big for her petite frame

Lost in a sea of war and fabric

An angel with hair matted and and an ashen face

So far away from me

Right up close, in the mix of the things

By the river, where Saul was knocked..

Children alike she hold bottles instead of hands

Alshaela, the narcotic, helps with the hunger

The grief and anguish

Of war

In my town

The hero arrives in April

A miniscule bud at the end of a bush

We refer to her as a flower, though technically…

Saving this place from the stench of unfulfilled potential

Promises unkept

All gone awry

We lose ourselves in the intoxicating scent of her

It helps with the grief and anguish

Sometimes the heroes are slow to come

Sometimes they are hard to recognize

I wonder who will com for them

The children of Syria

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