A poem for “Children in Syria's bloody cold beach”
In that bloody cold beach of Syria’s uprising,
Are children with dashed hopes.
Children whose parents are swallowed up
by the ocean of mass graves.
Graves which never fill up as the violent intolerant winds
of gunfire and rocket shelling continually blow.
Their eyes look up for help
from the gloomy clouds of an international Community.
As the doctor, father and leader
Walk cross the bloody cold beach sanded with
The bodies of children whose brief lives
Could only last as long as months.