dedalus Posted March 5, 2010 Share Posted March 5, 2010 (edited) Overture (re-arranging a little rough patch in the second stanza, plus lines here and there) A pall of smoke and drifting ash hangs above the battered ruins of Baghdad; for four long days it has hung above mounds of corpses and the humming sounds of blowflies. It has cast a shadow on the wide meandering river, but by now the impassive horsemen, their work done, have casually moved along. From an oven built of bricks, which takes up corner space in a smouldering cellar shop, emerges, from cavernous thick cool depths, a child, wary and uncertain. It is a boy, tousle-haired, perhaps about nine or ten. He gazes upon the surrounding wreckage and sees the charred bodies of his parents, his two sisters. He climbs up to the street. Tied to his robe by a thin rope is a pouch containing scraps of stale uneaten bread, an empty flask of water, four small silver coins. The street is grey and blurred under falling ash but the heat and the stench, as they come on so suddenly, cause the child to cough and gag. He mutters a quick prayer, Allah, not that his mind, unformed, truly believes in any God. Nothing moves. The collapsed huddled shapes, heaped, blackened and bloated, line the alleyways, and show themselves to be his neighbours, the people he has known since he was born. How … how could this have come to happen? It doesn't seem right that complete strangers, people he has never even seen or heard of before can ride in on the wind and do such things. --------------------------------------------------------- org. St.2 In a smouldering cellar shop, taking up all the corner space, from an oven of bricks, emerges, from cavernous thick cool depths, a child. Warily. The child seems to be a boy, .... (and the rest, non sum dignus, is much the same) Edited March 6, 2010 by dedalus Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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