with war drums thundering
across the middle east.
& its only no longer about why
but when.

i feel helpless
& discouraged
& greatly saddened.

i think of the women.
the children.
the men.
custodians
of a rich
vibrant history

now entrenched
in years
of systematic
violence and suffering.

the faces of baghdad.

& now.
i am transported

in the dead of night in baghdad.

where a family of four.
a small boy
barely ten
but looks younger
with a face
that seen suffering
who gently huddles his sister of five years.
holding her tight.
as tight as he possibly can
with as much love and protection his emaciated
body frame can muster.

i see the mother.
with suffering
etched deeply in her face.
and her eyes
have have lost the twinkle of delight
yet light up
when the children
are close by her
holding
her children
close to her bossom.
sharing stories from the hadith.
stories that mohammed (s.s.w)
shared with his followers.
stories of peace.
stories of compassion
stories the children
heard in the madarasa with other children.
stories the children remember by heart.

& i see the father.
looking outside the window.
across the skyline of baghdad
light up
with bombs and military warheads
realizing
he can
no longer protect his family...

&
then
there is a loud bang.

then silence.