A Mother's Lament

In some hot and dusty village in Iraq,
Shell-pocked, tortured, bloodied,
Palm trees - torn and mangled,
Vainly, stretching broken remnants
Towards the sun, the light,
In gestures of futility,
There lies, what might have been
The perpetuation of my flesh, my only son,
My gift to fools and demagogues,
To those who wave bright flags,
Smoke their cigars and count their profits,
While we, the people, bleed,
But friend, do mark my word,
And mark it well,
A wind is rising in the land,
Nay, more than that - a storm,
Which in the winter of our discontent,
Will rip apart this sorry scheme of things
With wrath born out of agony.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz