Lament by Rona Fitzgerald

I am not a silent poet

The boy was tortured, mutilated

sent home, his childhood,

manhood and his life, taken.

In the luxury London apartments

they offer a snow room

so people can experience cold.

In Aleppo, families know cold

a savage winter chill.

They also know ice, the kind

that enters your heart, like poison

never yields to love

or warmth again.

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