Syrian Tears

She rushed forward

The air thick with dust

Their cries filled

With fear and longing

But all she could do was run.

She ran . . .

A woman, torn

From all she loves

Her home – her country

And all she owns upon her back

All that matters was left behind.

But she has shelter now

They say she should be happy

Now a burden someone else has to carry

What manner of life is this –

That she should be happy?

Her hands rough and calloused

The only results of her labor now

And memories

Of loved ones left behind

Yet her hands could not

Protect them

She could only run.

Sadly, she bows her head

Agony sketched across her face

She lingers in her loneliness

Testament to all

She knew and loved

The burdens she shall carry.

A tent leans before her

Flapping in the wind

Empty and barren

A constant reminder

Of all she has lost.

A bed of dust

To lay her weary head

And worries

To keep her occupied

For home and family

Left behind.

And in her tears

All she can do

Is pass time

And wonder

Why she isn’t

Dead too.


© Sumyanna 2015


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