We are waltzing to the bomb blasts of Syria,
Mistaking the screams of innocent blood bathed children in Aleppo
For violins.
Their mothers’ exhalations are the winds blowing our chiffon scarves
While we complain about the hues of our new Instagram selections on our selfies.
Fathers are burying their daughters before they taste the kisses of the boy they will love.
Boys are losing limbs before their first loose tooth.
The gods or whatever forces there might be out there in the cartwheeling galaxies know we
Haven’t tried enough. We haven’t inquired enough. We haven’t pressured enough.
We are losing compassion way faster than we are gaining sense.
Syria, her people need us.
She needs us more than we need anything new that we throw our money and attention at.
She has lost too many. We have lost too many.
Syria’s loss is our loss.
Frank Malaba © 2017
Image: New York Times
Frank Malaba Prosetry 