There it is, amongst the ash.
Outgoing fire coming in, crash
Mothers with children making the dash.
Across a street, sniper shot whip lash.
There it is, white on grey.
White on fire. A white flag.
Stained red in an instant,
by the child who carried it.
And that white flag- red.
An angel’s wing for the dead.
But they were shot through too,
Trying to comfort all those we slew.
The rubble and ruin of peace.
The blood of a child in the street.
The cry of a Mother growing weak.
As the realpolitik into hearts, seeps.
In offices and newsrooms, stillness.
Apathy and peacekeeping like an illness,
watching this through bulletproof glass
and redrawing lines and swearing the last.
Show your speech to the dying child,
spout your rhetoric to his Mother.