For the children of Syria
What maddened wagging of our tongues is now,
so soon, to an unlikely bellows turned; The battered houses of this city, razed, by some dross burning fire, until none.
Whose eyes will gently gaze upon our fault,
our barren, grievous mischief now consider?
We burn in riots what we think we're not;
what remains undone, or done ill-heeded,
And still this battle in between our truth
and who we want to be, the aspiration;
'Til all is ash, and unattended blows
now meaningless into the hungry sky,
Where redemption whispers silently,
pleads for us to change our wayward course.
Will you remake us in these broken days,
or even care that we should be knit back,
Should be refashioned with the world
this broken thing that we have wrought?
This barren river bed, I taste her dust;
I sing her croaking song from this dry mouth.
Unintended as we are, we still remain
fenced off from the world that turns about,
While your roaring wind, which scours, parts;
heaps our dust into divided landscapes.
Fashion, from these bones, a new thing
or, better yet, restrain my ceaseless clattering.
What of the grave, the stone,
or of what use the wailing song;
The unremarkable last gasp,
or the utter silence of our leaving?
I know I must begin again or merely end;
view the varied paths relived
In the terror of that long and darkly moment
when my eyes shift closed in restless death.
Regret I will remember, or the joys of love;
as I try to find the balance of the scale,
To seek the tally of these finite, ordinary days,
their pitiful and soon forgotten sum.
Beneath our veiled lives, a deep unspoken thing,
our efforts spent remembering, forgetting.
What light suffuses us in these last labored breaths
that confounds our lonely, ever-present, sun;
Whose contemplation of our fault is surely less essential
than some unruly love that waits reply.
(c) 2017 Karekin M Yarian, BSG