Pretend it’s distant. Blood in the rubble.
Clothing under chunks of cement. A toy. Half a toy.
Scattered shards of mirror, showing sky.
A people being turned to dust we try not to see.
Goodness like buildings collapsed, mile after mile.
In the broken mirror a mother, wordless, gazing.
Desolation that speaks of a desolation.
A child, dazed, starving,
loved. We think they can’t see us,
humanity wasting away. A famine of decency.
Remnants of righteousness, almost buried.
A winged figure sifts through our ruins.
We don’t dare pick up the mirror.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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