This poem from our resident poet, A.D., reflects upon the babies, and children, who survive the death or loss of their mothers under terrible circumstances.

Whether it was during An Gorta Mór (Great Famine) of Ireland, the bombing of European cities during World War 2, the genocide in the Balkans or the results of war in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Sudan, Yemen or Palestine, too many children suffer the consequences of scandalous decisions made by greedy and callous idiots who sit in fine suites in their ivory towers. Many others get caught up in natural disasters that could be better prepared for by governments more intent on arming their military than in protecting their people from danger.

The Broken Cornucopia

 

You reach for ragged ribbons

Clutch the tattered bow

Cry for milk now disappeared

To where babies should not go

 

Rumbles echo through the heart

Spasms grip the broken skin

Tears won’t come, they’ve run away

Hunger screams within

 

Tiny fingers clasp the hand

Tiny fury struggles through

Empty belly writhes abandoned

Empty eyes that search for you

 

The dusty dark will hide the sight

But dusty dark can’t quiet the din

She fought and lost, her light now fading

Her baby’s need, the proof of sin

 

Illumination. A star has blossomed

New voices falter, behold the scene

New tears flow as hearts take issue

They rush in service where few have been

 

Tiny fingers clasp the hand

The owner gone, remaining, still

Tiny eyes gaze up in wonder

Contented, for now, with a belly filled

A.D.

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