A Lament For Syria Poem by ian westwood

I can hear the children crying
As each bomb pounds to the ground,
I can hear their mothers sighing
At each burst of blasting sound.

I can see the people fleeing
With child held close to breast,
I can see the masters laughing
Without pity or regret.

I can smell the dust of war
Now smouldering in the night,
Just like the day before
With no hope of peace in sight.

I can sense the sense of pity
Of all those who’ve suffered most,
Damascus, now a crippled city,
A shattered remnant of a hostile host.

And if I could span the seven seas
With a bowl of hope held in my hands,
I’d halt the flight of wayward doves with ease
And guide them back to tranquil sands.