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a thimble in time
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Newsmen
The heart-beat marches onward
sustaining One Soul
while the death-beat fires forever
creating countless holes
I feel it useless
me,
spilling black ink upon a blank white sheet
while in other worlds
soldiers bleach white sands with an array of bloody reds
A myriad of poetic words can hardly compete with a single television set,
and even my best thoughts will most likely suffocate in that sea of
teeming government experts;
politicians and military heads who somehow know when it’s best to take sons and daughters,
mothers and fathers
But what of the Iraqi child?
The one who sees both food and bullets plummeting from the sky
The one who sits (like us) and watches tanks roll by
Does he love or hate those planes above?
Does he really fancy American tanks and British guns?
When he is put to bed at night
(assuming he falls asleep)
Does he float away in a dream of brotherhood and peace?
Or does he sit on his pillow
--kept awake by Earth-shaking explosions--
contemplating vengeance and destruction against New York, Washington, and London?
I really don’t know.
CNN doesn’t interview Iraqi children.
So I sit on my pillow, gazing through a foggy window.
Rain drops whisper in the distance,
spluttering away in perfect unintelligibility.
They remind me of newsmen.
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030619
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