How strong these mothers are, their arms
hard as steel as they lift their toddlers
out of the war-clogged streets. Yes, the streets
no longer know what to vomit – blood, cries,
faces that have lost hope; shoes, clothes,
haphazardly gathered belongings in old bags.
Yes, the bags are always old, the hair is always
grey, the dust always refuses to settle; the eyes
dart left and right, afraid to look forward, afraid
of what is behind.
The voices are always angry. The voices want
to kill. The feet do not want to die, not yet. It
is movement they seek, forward movement,
knowing there is nothing to return to, no wall,
no roof, no door. What one wants is a floor
to sit on and a window to look out of. Windows
make one an observer; then one is only part of the
audience and has nothing to do with the street.
But the mothers will always be desperate. Always.