Six Hundred Days

Each day, I think of the children:
Killed by shells, and bullets,
And missiles,
By hunger and sickness,
And by brutal blows.

They are the same.
Everywhere,
They are the same,

I think of all the victims, found
Face down, hands bound,
Crumpled in death.

They are the same.

They are the doctors who won't return to their patients.
They are the teachers who won't return to their classrooms.
They are the artists, musicians and writers
Who can no longer imagine a better future.

Each of them, a precious world
Stolen from humanity.

Where is their voice now?
Who will speak for them?
What use even are words against the
Immeasurable weight of this crime?

There is only one war,
And it never ends.
It moves from city to city.
From country to country,
Feeding on the innocent.

As we wait in silence
For someone to stop this madness.