This is a response to something that's happening today, pretty much as I type. My heart is breaking on many levels. But that doesn't mean I know the answers.
Tonight the bombs started in Syria.
Too late? Not enough? A sign that
Trump really isn’t a puppet of Russia?
I don’t know the answer.
All I know is that Syria has suffered
bloodshed and loss for the past six years.
Civil war is never pretty.
Had we and others taken the refugees
we promised to take, how many could
have been saved?
The pitied dead children splashed across
our television screens were feared
as terrorists not two months ago.
Are we so cowardly that we fear babies?.
That we let them die on oceans, in
bombed and gassed cities?
When we know that pediatricians
were killed, hospitals bombed,
targeting children to weaken morale.
Medecins
sans Frontieres has told the story.
They are bombed by both sides.
“Accidentally” we are told.
The UN, that toothless watchdog,
Has called Syria “the worst
humanitarian disaster
of our time”
Our time.
The worst.
And things are pretty bad when we
look around.
I have nothing to give but
prayers and keening.
My Celtic blood boils in anger
and grief. It bubbles up through
my throat into a wild wail, rivaling
the banshees.
Keening for the dead
Keening for those soon to die
Keening for the death of humanity.
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