Thinking about war, hoping for peace

Once in a village that is burning
because a village is always somewhere burning 

And if you do not look because it is not your village
it is still your village 

In that village is a hollow child
You drown when he looks at you with his black, black eyes 

And if you do not cry because he is not your child
he is still your child 

All the animals that could run away have run away
The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger 

The houses are ruin  Nothing grows in the garden
The grandfather’s grave is there  A small stone 

under the shade of a charred oak   Who will brush off the dead
leaves   Who will call his name for morning prayer 

Where will they — the ones who slept in this house and ate from this dirt — ?