Wednesday, August 28, 2013


 So the red line is breached
That stripe of western will
Drawn in the desert sand
It is not our line to be sure
Was not done in our name
But that will hardly matter
For whatever we may believe
We do not count in the moment
Not even if...
Nurtured by the sourest seeds
Events bear bitter Syrian fruit
And every morsel of its ill harvest
Becomes poison on all our lips