NOT THE SOUND OF WAILING MOURNERS

A gray morning, overcast,

looks cold but 21 degrees,

I've read four hours straight

and now sit before the computer

and an open window, writing

now this and translating,

but honestly, these are empty

hours and empty days,

the thermometer can show

the scientific temperature

but this is a cold morning

on the scale of being,

yet, are not children

torn to pieces by bombs

last night being dup up

from under rubble

as I write, are not

skeletons of the murdered

still laying under

older piles of rubble,

homes turned into

burial mounds?

It's a cold morning

for those gathering up

the limbs of their

slain children,

it's a cold morning

for humanity,

but for us, wrapped

in words before

open windows

allowing silence

in, not the sound

of drones,

not the sound of

wailing mourners,

what is there for

us to complain,

we who don't carry

our killed children

in pieces inside bags?

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

30,07.2024