A Syrian Sorrow

Death of the Innocent 


The tiniest coffins weigh the earth;

Heavier than the heads

That now bow and search,

And remember, through tears

That blessed morn

When you opened your eyes

To share the dawn.


The tiniest coffins weigh the sky;

More than all the water 

That one could cry.

Heavier than the hearts

Now split asunder,

With a sound and fury

Like a night of thunder.




War Dead


Flies feast on the flesh

Of fallen fellows;

Comrades once, maybe brothers?

Their names yet to be chiselled,

Or maybe their numbers?


Their suffering will be forgotten 

By the future’s folk

But not their deeds

Nor the lives that they broke.


That fed the flies 

On the arms and legs,

Of the officiating Gentlemen 

And decapitated dregs.


Believing to a man,

That they’d given their all

But with a last glance they realised, 

They finally saw.


That whether for this 

Sordid reason or that,

It had all been for nothing 

More than the lies they were spat.





A bloody nightmare;

Soaking sheets.

Broken homes and 

Body blocked streets.


Pointless to run and with

Nowhere to hide.

The living are all dead

And God has no side.


The country’s now a carcass;

Perhaps a goat or a sheep,

A nephew or a neighbour 

From a body strewn street.


Being sliced and carved;

Choice cuts and tripe.

By the filthiest of souls

From the darkest of nights.


From far off lands

They scheme and scare,

To increase their stock,

To increase their share.


To strip bare, to the bone

With neither feeling nor fuss,

Civilisation. Strewn on

The road to Damascus.



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