A LAMENT FOR SYRIA
I can hear the children crying
... As each bomb pounds to the ground,
I can hear their mothers sighing
At each burst of blasting sound.
I can see the people fleeing
With child held close to breast,
I can see the masters laughing
Without pity or regret.
I can smell the dust of war
Now smouldering in the night,
Just like the day before
With no hope of peace in sight.
I can sense the sense of pity
Of all those who’ve suffered most,
Damascus, now a crippled city,
A shattered remnant of a hostile host.
And if I could span the seven seas
With a bowl of hope held in my hands,
I’d halt the flight of wayward doves with ease
And guide them back to tranquil sands.
Ian Westwood, 20.9.2012
I can hear the children crying
... As each bomb pounds to the ground,
I can hear their mothers sighing
At each burst of blasting sound.
I can see the people fleeing
With child held close to breast,
I can see the masters laughing
Without pity or regret.
I can smell the dust of war
Now smouldering in the night,
Just like the day before
With no hope of peace in sight.
I can sense the sense of pity
Of all those who’ve suffered most,
Damascus, now a crippled city,
A shattered remnant of a hostile host.
And if I could span the seven seas
With a bowl of hope held in my hands,
I’d halt the flight of wayward doves with ease
And guide them back to tranquil sands.
Ian Westwood, 20.9.2012
