Dust clouds swirl
on pools of sticky blood.
Bullets fly inches above her head.
Muffled, strangled cries.
Maggots on decomposed bodies,
severed heads and limbs.
Her fingers rake
through bloodied bodies,
her gaze darts frantically around.
Her father’s boots-
Papa’s dying breath,
did he recite the Shahadah?
Sounds of shelling, shooting-
funnel in her ears,
replay in her head.
She doesn’t have time
to moan or whine
about her fate.
She has little choice.
©Amy Barry, 2013
Syria: no child safe from the bloody conflict
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work.
