Sunday, 22 March 2015

A song for Bekaa Valley



They were only babies.

Some of them young enough

To never have known

The outside world.


A place without

airstrikes and snipers.

Where a night's sleep

isn't broken by fear.


All innocence left behind

as they walked the road from Damascus.

A community of makeshift tents

offered a temporary reprieve.


The first sanctuary

their short lives had ever known.

Only they weren't safe.

Their presence unsettled the neighbours.


Mired by indifference,

beleaguered by war.

I faced the children of Syria

on Mothering Sunday.


But I saw no flowers.

Or chocolates.

Just unaddressed cards.

These were no longer babies.

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