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Poetry

Children of the crescent
(the true victims of war)

 

By Ramtin
April 23, 2003
The Iranian

bootleg cigarette candy cancerize your teeth.
gun smoke gathers in your wooly hair
and you sweat the poison
your father's bestowed upon you.
no penicillin.
no shoes,
bronze feet tortured by heat from a distant hate.
no caressing hands,
no mercy.
daddy is a martyr,
mommy only speaks in orders,
and you can't read.
fruits of a tainted land, you kick rocks
between old steel cylinders, call it a game.
after noon prayer you kneel on the street
and plead to strangers
who only see your tiny face as a reflection
of their own suffering.
in these merciless times you grasp the euphrates
and swallow the hopes of a nation.
when the roads are lined with fire,
and the holy wells run red
who will wipe your tears?
when the dying god stops bleeding,
who will wipe your tears?   

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