As your little hands grasp for comfort recognisable
After the world of rubble you were ripped from,
The smooth plastic mask fails to hold still in your shaky palms
Try and concentrate on your breath.
A greedy lens pokes into the corner of your eye
Have you even noticed the journalist to your left?
It’s me, on the other end of the wire
When I was small like you
And my mother was alive
All I needed were those words,
By sheen, my fear had almost vanished.
I wish I could pull you to my breast like she did
And protect you from feeling alone as you are surrounded
By other bleeding men
Who the doctors run to instead of you
You could have been me, and I you
Both totally powerless to end this chaos
But we shout and fight in our own way
To remind people that you exist
I hope to meet you one day on the plains of Europe
Or maybe in your Damascene garden
With a fountain and the sweet smell of jasmine filling the air