The White Helmets {poetry}

Covered in dust

Digging with bare hands

They search for the living the dying the dead

Each day, watching the sky, for the woosh and what comes after

A country where tears have long since dried up

thousands of dead

and they watch the sky

follow the trail of pain with only hope


for the last bit of life buried under dust that used to be walls

walls that used to hold families, paintings, signs of joy

but now hold fear and inevitable numbness

Shock has long since passed, perhaps after the fifteenth shockwave felt

We watch the sky and do nothing

They watch the sky

and hope.