KOSOVO 1999

AP photo/David Brauchli

Sister Refugee,

your hopeless, tear-streaked face

looks out at me

from my tv screen

and I recognize

how easily

it might have been

reversed:

I finding myself

sitting in your place.

It could so easily be

me instead of you

huddled

on that muddy hillside

in the rain,

looking so tired and old,

so resigned and full of pain,

cradling a sleepy grandchild

against the bitter cold.

What do we know or care

of politics?

Our lives are about love,

and keeping children safe.

We walk the same earth,

share the sky above;

that yours rains bombs

and mine rains tears

a trick of fate

that could just as easily

reverse

this time next year.

photo by BBC
Your eyes meet mine

across the miles

with bitter dread.

In the midst of

all this folly

how do we keep the children fed?

How nurture the future,

how hang on to hope,

when life hangs

suspended

by such a fragile thread?

We both agree

that this is not

The Way,

are helpless

but to endure,

having no say,

until the tide

can turn

and turn

once more,

tossing us up

upon a kinder shore.

KOSOVO~1999

My grandson, Josh~I wrote this as one grandmother to another.

Sister Refugee,

your hopeless tear-streaked face

looks out at me from my tv screen

and I recognize how easily
it might have been reversed,
I finding myself
sitting in your place.

It could so easily be me instead of you

huddled on that muddy hillside in the rain,
looking so tired and old,
so resigned and full of pain,
cradling a sleepy grandchild
against the bitter cold.

What do we know or care of politics?

Our lives are about love,
and keeping children safe.

We walk the same earth,

share the sky above,
that yours rains bombs and mine rains tears
a trick of fate
that could just as easily reverse
this time next year.

Your eyes meet mine across the miles

with bitter dread.
In the midst of all this folly
how do we keep the children fed?
How nurture the future,
how hang on to hope,
when life hangs suspended
by such a fragile thread?

We both agree

that this is not The Way,

are helpless but to endure,

having no say,
until the tide can turn
and turn once more,
tossing us up
upon a kinder shore.