Sunday, September 3, 2017

Kerri Shying R # 316 - Rohingya children


Rohingya children

small  is not the word
for your half-open skull

the flower of a mother’s heart
flung away from the stalk 

and reassembled   like the toy
held still in your hand

your mother dead 
your cousins crossed the river  just

at the time your death
 arrived   for me to carry on

this face  your seed
of life

nothing blossoms
anymore   for your ancestors

but stones


3 comments:

  1. beginning of a plan for a much longer work ...
    a first look over the territory

    ReplyDelete
  2. This Burmese atrocity continues. The heart of the sufferers beats in this poem.

    ReplyDelete
  3. It's horrendous what is going on. Your poem captures it so well - a mother's heart-beat, stones and all...

    ReplyDelete

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