Phone Call to Aleppo

Do not criticize me, sir! Do not
Call me coward from the safety
Of a chair inside a home a
Continent away. You've seen
The pictures. Nothing's left.
We're rats who hide beneath
The rubble of what was our lovely
City, dodging Russian helicopters,
Assad's troops, Iranians, Iraqis,
Even Europeans. There is nothing
Here to eat, no medicine, and this
Is how it's been since...when?
Six years ago! My son and daughter
Both are dead. My wife is in a camp
In Jordan. Half the men I started
With have died. Do you know how
That feels? I'm not a warrior,
Not a politician. I'm a man who
Once sold fabric in a souk near here,
Who one day learned he'd have
To fight if he was to survive.
I don't like sending men to face
The guns and mortars, barrel
Bombs, aware that some will not
Return. I don't like leading
Weeping, starving women
And decrepit men down into
Bunkers. If Assad's men say
They'll stop, then I, too, will
Lay down my gun. The war's
Not won, but I don't care. There's
Nothing anywhere to win.
You call me coward if you like,
And curse and swear inside
Your house. I'm finally going
To sleep tonight. Perhaps I'll
Dream I'm back to selling
Fabric in the souk.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2017-02-05 at 13:56

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