To Syrian Children

You all are culpable — for wending your way to schools
for going to hospitals, for playing in open spaces and
for keeping at your dreams within a country in rags.
Yes, you never knew that you would be going down with
a fever that would burn your fleshes into a universal
white fume— blooming in newspapers.
But, liven up the carcasses now. You wanted to be
in suits like Putin or Trump; look what have you ended up with—
a sweat of literate talks in a ground of experimentation.
The handsome presidents have osculated you goodbye.

Now burn yourself completely, or they would light cigarettes
out of you, blaming you for the cancer rampant in air.
Don’t let yourselves counted — history will be framed without you.
You won’t smell good like those dead woods and leaves, so
vanish with the fumes and transform yourself into water—
it would fulfill your hope —
of staying away from fire
and desire to wash blind eyes.

The Unborn ones, please retreat to your mother’s womb
The mouths of guns are shouting outside.
Wait till they have the ear to celebrate your first cry.

About the Author
Sonnet Mondal in the author of five books of poetry and has spent considerable time in the Middle East and Kashmir. A featured writer at the International Writing program, University of IOWA, Sonnet is the editor of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. He has read at some of the major poetry festivals of the world and his latest works have appeared in Business Insider, The Mcneese Review, Indian Literature Journal, Sheepshead Review, Connotation Press, Asia Literary Review, Two Thirds North and The Palestine Chronicle.
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