He is already a hundred years old.                               

Barely nine, his eyes slowly drown      
                           

In his sudden tears as his brown fingers                       

Tremble below the wound of his lips.      
                        

His thoughts walk through the dust memories             

Of destruction, the bomb-collapsed   
                               

Building where his parents, three brothers                    

And his two sisters were killed.    
                                       

He is alone in the world.  Alone with his fears.               

His small bag of experiences is already full.

The Western reporter and cameraman                              

Will go back to their hotel and stitch together       
           

Yet another war story, while the boy will wander            

His devastated city, where horror      
                                   

Is piled on horror, where planes scratch                                

The night sky and break up the morning.    
                          

He shakes his dark head, he is lost for words,                       

As his eyes stare through the flesh    
                                        

Of so-called civilization                                                                

To the foul and bloodied bones of reality.   
  

Peter Thabit Jones (c) 2022

Published in GARDEN OF CLOUDS/NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2020