East of Damascus

I am, of course, among those here
Who lie. We're dead. We rot.
We're stinking. All the fighting
Has moved on. There is no sound
Now, but the wind. There are no
Mothers here to cry. We are
The dead. We have no meaning.
In the pristine morning sun,
A butterfly has found my face.
It's beautiful. It cannot judge.
It draws some moisture, flies
Away, and we, the dead, can
Watch it flutter, watch it live,
As we cannot. A truck arrives.
And we are gathered up, and
Thrown into its bed. It's afternoon.
The sun is foul, and flies, not
Butterflies, have come to sew
Their seeds, to give us maggots.
Go ahead. Consume us, friends.
The war is somewhere else.
The mothers cannot know
Where we were slaughtered.
Why not turn us into something
That the vegetables can use?
The war goes on. We don't.
We're dead. Salute the
Butterflies and flies. The
Least among us have the means
To thrive, though all else
In the world ends.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 51 times
Written on 2017-03-08 at 01:33

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