I examine a photo of a ragged child
holding a ragged doll
In Arabic, her name means “White Cloud”
She is just five years old
She is a refugee from Aleppo
In a filthy camp, she cries out
in thunder and rain,
in tragedy and pain.
Here In another zone,
in the valley of the green mountains,
I hear the blackbirds squawk and moan
They mimic hawks and humans
Some say they guide the living and the dead,
out of the shadows,
beyond the thunder and the rain,
beyond the tragedy and the pain.
