Made In Syria

We woke to find the sun blotted out,

A cocktail of sand and air floating about,

Sky dirty yellow, coloring all outside,

So familiar rules of nature were defied,

It was hard to breathe, mouthfuls of dirt,

Stinging eyes and lungs that were hurt,

And it did not pass after hours, or a day,

This phenomenon stubbornly wanted to stay,

Imprisoned inside lest we become ill,

There was no wind, the sandstorm was still,

The experts said it had come from Syrian land,

Our air was saturated with blowing Syrian sand,

And how it had moved here was unclear to all,

Just we knew it had, as sand continued to fall,

And I wondered if this sand had been trod by,

The thousands of refugees escaping Syrian sky,

And whether sand had tried to follow them, to flee,

Mass movement, torturing of land in that country,

Perhaps this sand was trod by the doers of terror,

The earth terrified, it’s unearthing no error,

Its taste was offensive, we waited till it passed,

As their war still rampages on, not finishing so fast.

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This entry was posted in poetry, Syria, war, Weather and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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