Afghanistan

I was not there

when on his quick road to hell

he detonated the bomb,

death strapped to his chest

like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there

when you offered prayers at the mosque,

did not hear the explosion,

did not sink into blackness,

did not wake to the horror,

did not see as you tried

to piece your children’s bodies together,

did not see you searching for limbs,

little body parts scattered

as if confetti of war. 

I was not there;

your screams passed without hearing,

your pain without feeling,

I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,

now know of your story,

know your grief is enormous,

know you sink into sadness,

know you can’t afford surgery,

know that poverty steals you,

know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,

I am moved by your story. 

I think of you, feel for you,

picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,

soon I will  unconsciously filter you out.

My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,

a new disaster    or petty things,

little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;

this is how we operate – to stay sane,

to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…

to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice. 

Anna

Written for Susan’s Midweek Motif at Poets United where she asks us to write about Truth, thanks for the inspiration Susan.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads, hosted by Rommy – cheers Rommy, and also the good folk at dVerse - cheers for hosting Grace.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Carlos Adampol Galindo