And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?—William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”1.This beast wears a butcher’s smockbearing the words “Chosen,”and “Blessed by God,” gore drippingfrom its jaws. It cares nothingfor your little girl or boy trappedbeneath smashed concrete towers,whose cry for help, the tiny voiceof a bird, is slowly crushed.Bloodied fingernails scrabbleat ten-ton wreckage while sniperssquint through laser sights to blowa clean hole through the heart—Red Crescent jerseysa marksman’s perfect bull’s-eye.More journalists dead in three monthsthan in all of World War Two.A woman carrying her broken sisterto a mirage of safety crumplesat the squeeze of a trigger.Hospital floors too thick with bloodto wash away, newborns starvedto shivering matchsticks,mothers’ eyes shredded in pain.This beast slouches, fetid breathfed on bodies, hate’s whirlwind,perpetual in every haunted brainand shattered heartthat will never sleep again.
2.Pull the shocked and bruised bodyfrom the smoking ruins of hope.Bathe his bleeding breastin sacred water. Help her stand upand walk free again.Let prayers fall like spring rainin every country, drench usto the skin. Let language returnto its source by the twin rivers of Eden,that place that never existedyet lives on inside each of us.Let it bless every ear with love.©2024 Sean Arthur Joyce
Searing and hope-filled, both. Thank you.
Hey there, I’m just about to send you my Gaza poem…liked this, gore, blood and all. Will send next week.