every grain a life
waiting for the relief trucks
We wait patient,
Spits of flesh,
Wrapped against the sun,
Bowls ready, lips dry.
Trucks expected at ten.
Sirens. Arrival imminent.
Dust clouds flare shimmering.
Distances diminishing.
Wait wilting, begging bowls lifted.
Smiling faces. Helmets. Blue and white.
Guns holstered. Foreign voices.
Don’t stop. We run, chase.
Sacks cast. Breaking. Burst.
They watch us scrabbling –
Every dusty grain a life –
Laugh at hunger’s theatre. Retreat.
I gather what I can and return.
Adam looks up as I enter,
Drops back to twitching sleep.
Ehva does not stir.
I stoop, check if she’s warm.
© PilgermannBM 2022
Views: 790
It has all been said by the others – I can only concur; the imagery is harrowing – how can I say I enjoyed the poem? Maybe just let it work as it should be.
I won’t go so far as to say it is a poem; it is a record of moments which matter. I apologise if the imagery is harrowing; that was not my intent.
Sorry, you have lost me there. Why do you say it is not a poem?
The site seems to have trimmed my reply. I had meant to say “it is not a poem necessarily to be enjoyed.”
This is a moving poem. Humanity needs people to record everything that happens, no matter how harrowing, because people need to know.
The last two lines are heartbreaking.
bhi
We shall write, we shall record every moment so the people who follow will not forget. That is how the “weak” will be heard.