Gathering

image

(Exodus by Darko Birsa.  Slovenia, Painting, oil.)

It was the harvest,

yet, we were starving.

Even the baby’s snores

scattered.

A bent mink cloth,

a dilapidated gaze,

gold-plated skin of paint peeling the

splendors of war,

still rattling,

in the secular breeze.

Able,

we had nothing

left except the plain,

non-commital

lux

of blown-out museums and

bereft shopping malls.

I turned to hear the sound

of tortured faces

centering in the town square.

A diaspora had ended

amongst the ruins.

Never,

not ever,

would I forget

the paradox.

This was inspired by The Sunday Whirl as well as this story http:// http://m.motherjones.com/politics/2014/11/syria-war-assad-starvation-hunger I read earlier on Twitter.

Also linked to dVerse Open Link Night, and Poets United.

Advertisements