Girl From Syria
© Surazeus
2017 12 03
Three blue ravens in the dead Christmas tree
wake me up from my television trance
and lead me from our quaint suburban maze
to the shores of Greece where refugees weep.
Like Aphrodite from foaming sea waves
lost refugees who flee religious wars
ascend from abyss of hopeless despair
and search for paradise behind barbed wire.
The plastic doll tangled in sea weed lies
wide-eyed on the sand of ten thousand years,
bathing in rays of the indifferent sun,
and smiles when I bring her water to drink.
She shows me wave-soaked photo of her mom
and white kitten in garden of their home,
whispering that both were killed by politics
exploding from bombs in mouths of old men.
Walking along the beach of shining sand,
she follows footsteps of the nameless souls
who walked before the past ten thousand years,
washed away by ambitious waves of hope.
I see their shadows pass by on the sand
so I try to map the paths of their quests
to find fruit groves by sparkling waterfalls,
but they all vanished long before my birth.
She gathers fruit seeds from dead trees of faith,
then finds small plot of land between highways
and plants new Garden of Eden where cars
race past their invisible walls all day.
She manufactures book of songs from tears
of mothers whose children drowned in the sea
when they were riding boats on eagle wings
that landed on the lawns of golden mansions.
Who will read the book that preserves their tales
after our sun shrinks down to a blue dwarf
since all the dreams that sparkled in our brains
still shimmer in the atoms of its core.
The girl from Syria transforms bombed towns
to gardens of apple trees and lush herbs
where children draw pictures of moms and cats
on walls of temples where only light glows.
© Surazeus
2017 12 03
Three blue ravens in the dead Christmas tree
wake me up from my television trance
and lead me from our quaint suburban maze
to the shores of Greece where refugees weep.
Like Aphrodite from foaming sea waves
lost refugees who flee religious wars
ascend from abyss of hopeless despair
and search for paradise behind barbed wire.
The plastic doll tangled in sea weed lies
wide-eyed on the sand of ten thousand years,
bathing in rays of the indifferent sun,
and smiles when I bring her water to drink.
She shows me wave-soaked photo of her mom
and white kitten in garden of their home,
whispering that both were killed by politics
exploding from bombs in mouths of old men.
Walking along the beach of shining sand,
she follows footsteps of the nameless souls
who walked before the past ten thousand years,
washed away by ambitious waves of hope.
I see their shadows pass by on the sand
so I try to map the paths of their quests
to find fruit groves by sparkling waterfalls,
but they all vanished long before my birth.
She gathers fruit seeds from dead trees of faith,
then finds small plot of land between highways
and plants new Garden of Eden where cars
race past their invisible walls all day.
She manufactures book of songs from tears
of mothers whose children drowned in the sea
when they were riding boats on eagle wings
that landed on the lawns of golden mansions.
Who will read the book that preserves their tales
after our sun shrinks down to a blue dwarf
since all the dreams that sparkled in our brains
still shimmer in the atoms of its core.
The girl from Syria transforms bombed towns
to gardens of apple trees and lush herbs
where children draw pictures of moms and cats
on walls of temples where only light glows.
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