Baghdad Morning in New York
by Paul Batou

                            At eyeshot,
              Such threads of gloomy fog
                     in a coal black sky.
               They claim to be God's knights
                And universe's earthquake
               They claim to be . . . the message's protector
                          At eyeshot.
                         A blast echoes . . .
                   Holes scorched in the sky.
                          At eyeshot,
                There was silence.
                    And waiting.
                   Towers fell down from the clouds,
                     The ground collected
                             The scattered bodies.
           There was . . . a storm of crying.
                   And screaming.
              All were hugging the air.
              Drizzles of smoke drop,
              Fall like a rain shower
                  Over the heaps.
              I looked at my face in the mirror!
                  When evening came along,
                       City lights shined
                On remains and corpses.
                 Is this another Baghdad?
              One that collects its dead!
          And sings a song at the Euphrates.
                        blue was the sky,
                 Silent was the ocean.
              While embracing the city,
              And the Statue of Liberty.      
   Oh . . . New York.
   Do they come from there?
               Chasing us?
          Let them come,
        My heart is full of snow,
           from winter and wintertime.
           My heart is full of anger,
             from fighting and killing.
          My heart is full of sadness,
             from weeping and mourning.
                    A wound has opened,
                     A tower has fallen!
                            My dear,
                 They do not love fl owers,
                      Or jasmine.
            They do not like farmers' songs,
                  Nor do they like the rain.
            They do not like fall whistling,
                Or the summer sun rising.
               They do not like winter nights.
                              At eyeshot,
                       Wherever I look,
                   I saw light.
                   I saw old people and children.
                   I saw orphans and heroes.
                             All are lifting
                                 A tower
                              To the sky.
                    Oh . . . New York.
                     Oh . . . Baghdad.
                             Cowards are they,
                      Who kill from behind.

Copyright © 2007 - Paul Batou
Published: 10/18/07   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem