For the children of Syria (R. W. Emerson, “It is in rugged crises, in unbearable endurance, and in aims which put sympathy our of the question, that the angel is shown.”)
While Damascus burns her Angel waits.
We watch, the Angel and I,
as that wandering curse, that anger so old, returns
again, again, again
from before time began.
We watch it writhe along the valley floor
moving toward the city
burning all it touches
a lost, hungry, whining thing, it rolls down from the smoking, dark hills.
Inescapable.
Desolation passes from fathers to their children.
The mothers weep. A millennium of tears.
They watch their children run on their own tiny feet.
How long will they cry?
Sorrow soaks their marrow.
Relentless
it will not let them go.
We wait, the Angel and I. Watching.
The children run toward us.
Our tears reach for them.
While Damascus burns her Angel lifts them up: These human children.
Her wings
enfold their tiny bodies.
My hands reach for them.
We gather these little ones.
The wings of the Angel beat and rise.
Leaving behind all that is heavy.
They will rest. Again.
Inside their infant skins they will remain
for now. Un-marked. Warm.
