War Child by Donna Smith

I am not a silent poet

A skein of wild geese shrieking overhead,
migrating to somewhere warmer instead.
Journey rehearsed many times already,
their route is well planned, their progress steady.
But you, war child, your eyes full of sorrow,
just five years old, no hope for tomorrow.
Torn from home in the middle of the night,
fleeing the warzone, no refuge in sight.

Wild geese and war child fighting for their lives,
migrants of necessity, just to survive.
Wild geese are determined, warm climes the prize,
the sojourn elsewhere a welcome reprise.
But for you, war child, escape does not mean,
an end to your nightmare, both lived and seen.
For all of the horrors scorched in your head,
could not be erased unless you too were dead.


Donna Smith lives in Shropshire, England.  Her writing has been published in the UK, Ireland and USA.

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