They waited. And they are still waiting

They waited in line for food.
For the queue to thin.
For the trucks to arrive.
For the bags not to be empty.
For the bread not to be rotten.
For the line to hold.

They waited for water.
For the tap to drip.
For the barrel to fill.
For the baby to latch.
For the milk to come.
For the thirst to pass.

They waited for medicine.
For the morphine to arrive.
For antibiotics that weren’t expired.
For someone trained to help.
For the fevers to break.
For the bleeding to stop.

They waited for shelter.
For the tents to hold.
For the nylon not to tear.
For the mud to dry.
For the cold to lift.
For the heat to pass.

They waited for home.
For the checkpoint to open.
For the gate to be unbarred.
For the road to be clear.
For the house to be standing.
For the door to be there.
For a wall, a window, a chair, a bed.

They waited for the dead.
For the names to be counted.
For the plastic bag to cover the child.
For a proper shroud.
For someone to help carry the stretcher.
For a grave that wasn’t dug by hand.
For the living to matter.

They waited for dignity.
For a blanket that reached their feet.
For a toilet with a door.
For soap.
For privacy.
For a place to cry without being seen.
For something clean.
For something soft.

They waited for peace.
For the ceasefire to start.
For the war to take a breath.
For the war to take a break.
For the war to take someone else.
For the war to forget them.
For the war to end.
For the war to end.

And they are still waiting.