Place Of The Dead 'Homs' Poem by Terry Deal

So cold we were
Blinded to pain
By benign apathy
Bound to our job


Pushed to our limits
By needs of the rich
To work big machines
In hospitals so clean


But at least in Q8
They were trying
To serve the poor
Health rained supreme


Was with King's Son
Got an urgent call
From the General
Secret Service Syria


To fix a machine
Fast, in a hospital
Jumped on a taxi
Flew the 'Tube'


With goats and chicks
Of the feathered kind
Left those lovely nurses
Left a good hotel


Straight into hell's jaws
SS General gave a letter
And smiled secretively
Saying 'You might need this'


Then told me the news
To Aleppo I must go
To fix a machine
300 km or more away


Fat driver was with car
Mercedes, to go fast
Passed a 25 km chain
Of Soviet tanks, phew!


At a large town
We were stopped
By hard military men
Machine guns pointed


‘You cannot go on
You must go back'
Was translated to me
'We are shelling Homs'


Tired stomach churned
I had to do my job
To fix a health machine
For Secret Service men


I remembered the letter
Emblazoned in cold
I passed it to the driver
Faint hope in my eyes


Colonel sprang to attention
Read the letter in awe
Shouted to his men
‘Stop shelling for lunch


Let this man through'
He told my driver
‘You have one hour
Then we shell again'


I thought we must hasten
Through this poor town
To secret hospital for few
Started to relax slowly back


The driver turned around
‘It is my lunch break and
We shall stop for a meal'
I managed a lettuce leaf


While he ate like a pig
Frenzy was all around
I was scared witless
Wanted to go quick


We left 3 minutes late
With shells overhead
Left the town, drove fast
From the 'Place of the Dead'