A Tear For Syria

The nation sprawls, prostrate:
broken limbs, crumbling bodies;
valley of vultures,
cloud of flies,
frisking scavengers.

Victory throws a party for ghosts;
a once boisterous land—
now a silhouette of what was:
a land of the dancing dead.

The victor towers over rubbles,
wearing rueful impish glee.
He stands, stern, gaunt as death,
tight-lipped; grim irony on a face

pondering the weight of victory
as soot settles after an inferno,
soothing the pain of death
paling the pants for life.

Civilization without humanity;
blood turns muddy,
red puddle, and bricks—
homes for ghosts

in a land once of the living.

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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By savingwordtracts

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