.

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.

.