That Little Syrian Boy
Your head lays peacefully upon your pillow,
Whilst he lays his head upon his sobbing mother's lap.
There's nothing else to lie upon,
For his house has been burnt to cinders.
You smile to yourself as you reflect upon the day's happenings,
Wondering to yourself: What's tomorrow's lunch?
Whilst he cries himself to a broken sleep,
Wondering if he'll wake up tomorrow alive or not.
You curl up your toes, embracing the warmth of your clean, fresh duvet.
Whilst he curls up his grubby self, to harness as much heat as possible.
Its cold where he lives.
The wind bites at him mercilessly.
But you?
You're snuggled up in a place where you know you're safe.
As you walk to school the next day, your phone drops to the ground.
The screen shatters, and you well up with panic.
Meanwhile, bombs drop to the ground, in the little boy's world.
Everything shatters there, including the last little windows of hope.
He watches helplessly from the corner, as his mother collapses on the dry, barren land.
He can't do anything but witness the last breaths of his mum.
Tears well up in his eyes, and he turns away from her lifeless face,
To save himself from sleepless nights.
But you?
You are reassured by the fact that you'll probably get a new phone the next day.
He can't get a new mum.
After hours of Maths and English, you come home to a dining table,
A dining table where every inch is covered with pots and plates of steaming food.
He comes to a tiny corner of the street which he calls home.
And he scrounges for scraps of food.
Anything.
Anything to keep him alive.
Nothing.
He gives up and lays his head on the fractured tarmac of the road.
He closes his eyes,
To block out all the pain and poverty that was happening.
He embraces the darkness and falls into a deep, inevitable sleep.
But you?
You go to sleep again so sure you'll wake up again tomorrow.
Your life, your home, your family and your food,
Everything is perfect, yet you still complain.
Whilst that little Syrian boy,
Merely dreamt of living a life like yours.
I wrote this poem at a workshop, as I feel so strongly about this topic. It's awful for the people of Palestine, and they will always be in my prayers.
